Under the Tuscan Sun
by infernallyminded
Summary: "Katniss, please just do this for me! I can't just throw out a ticket to attend a Mellarco baking course!" Italy, bread and burnt fingers: what starts out as a favour for Prim, turns out to be a trip that Katniss will never forget. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Under the Tuscan Sun**

* * *

"-but Katniss, I don't think you know how hard it was for Rory to book! It was _that hard _that he could only reserve a single placement – but he is so sweet, Katniss. He gave _me _the ticket instead!"

Katniss stared at her nineteen year old sister, her long blonde hair curling down to the small of her back. Her large, cherubic-blue eyes glimmered with hope as she waved the single ticket in front of her older sister.

"Prim, Rory bought it for you, meaning that _you _should go." Looking up from her crossword with a sigh, Katniss's response was gentle but resolute. She missed Prim's glare when she immediately glanced down at the seven letter puzzle she was currently deciphering. '_A province in Italy famous for arguably 'sweet' bread known as 'Fiandolone'.' _

Prim, her not-so-little duck, had grown to be quite a stubborn young lady – especially when she thought she was right. Indeed, the angelic blonde may still be the most kindest, fairest, compassionate, loving and patient woman on the planet, but when she was she was set on something, she would fight for it tooth and nail.

Well, metaphorically anyway…

Prim huffed impatiently. Katniss was obviously not listening to her explanation of the problem she was facing. How could she go when she had her first Twelve Oaks Charity function ball to host? The local hospital that she used to volunteer at when she was young desperately needed an overall upgrade. There weren't enough beds to go around, nor were the facilities suited to a medium sized hospital – and don't get her started on the complete lack of a medicinal lab and proper, designated wards. No, it was Prim's duty to help raise funds and awareness for the debilitated hospital.

It may have also helped when she took into account the fact that twenty-four year old _Peeta Mellarco _was the member of the famous family that would be in charge of instructing Katniss how to cook authentic Italian cuisine…

What was she thinking? Katniss wasn't ever swayed by the opposite sex. When her sister first met Gale, Prim was sure that Katniss would end up with him. Strong, brave, handsome, down-to-earth and in love with the outdoors – that about summed up Gale. When Prim caught Gale kissing a blushing Katniss on the lips, she could already predict the type of bridesmaid dress she would wear – cut, colour and style. Sadly, Prim was yanked from her wedding fantasies prematurely (but two months after the stumbled-upon kiss) when Katniss was replaced with a girl called _Joanna. _

_Joanna, _who liked to be called _Jo _instead, had shiny, straight dark hair that just touched her narrow shoulders. She was surprisingly wiry for her petite size, and she only ever smiled when she was with Gale or teasing Katniss.

What admittedly surprised Prim the most out of the whole situation was the fact that both Gale _and _Katniss seemed happier with the new arrangement, but that is perhaps another story for another time.

"Katniss, _please _just do this for me! I can't just _throw out _a ticket to attend a _Mellarco _baking course!" Prim pulled the crossword book away from her older sister when she realised that the brunette was ignoring her. Katniss rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, arching an eyebrow as if to say '_please continue, dear sister.'_

"Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now – and I mean _kill, _Katniss." Prim beseeched. Katniss's expression did not change.

"_Mellarco, _Katniss." Prim paused, searching her older sister's face once more. "_Mellarco." She repeated for emphasis. _

Katniss huffed, rubbing the back of her hand against her eye tiredly. "Prim, I just _can't _next week – it's very late notice – and it's almost peak season back at the camp! I can't just leave when Gale needs the most help!" She implored.

Prim ignored her protests, softly but firmly gripping her sister's wrists to keep her from getting up from her position on the recliner. "Katniss, you and Gale _own _Twelve Oak's Adventure Camp. You have more than sixty employees that are _paid _to help keep the business running, and yet lately, you've been drowning in a pool of paperwork instead of actually –"

"- I've realised that it is my duty to deal with more than the odd legal document or the half-yearly finance report. Is that so big of a –"

Prim ignored her sister's interruption, silencing her with a look. Sighing, she leaned forward and tucked a strand of Katniss's hair behind her ear. "Dad would've wanted you to do what you love most – being out there in the forest, showing the kids how to climb a tree or watching the older ones grudgingly smile as they hear Haymitch's drunken stories about his past conquests." Prim paused, eyes serious. "It's _not _your fault he died in a car crash on his way to the camp, Katniss." She said quietly. The brunette sister jerked her face away from the blonde, eyes betraying her as they began to sting with unshed tears.

"It's been a whole year, Katniss," Prim forced out, "-Although you were in no way at fault, I understand that you believe otherwise. So, for the sake of those who love you…_forgive yourself." _ Prim pretended to ignore her sister's shaky intake of breath, as well as her refusal to face her.

"Katniss…he would've wanted you to continue on with your life. He loved Twelve Oaks just as much as you did." Prim paused awkwardly. Prim never truly understood her father and sister's love for the forest that surrounded the camp. From as early as she could remember, Katniss and her father had been exploring that forest, coming home with fresh hunt, beautiful flowers and twigs in their hair. Apart from the time spent with her, Prim only ever saw Katniss _properly _smile when she was getting ready to leave for a trip to the woods. Even when her sister grew older, attaining an attractive, willowy figure, the local boys' attention did not make Katniss giggle and bat her eyes like the other girls – if anything, it made her scowl and hiss until none of the boys ever looked her way again.

Although Prim did not understand why the forest was so incredibly special, she knew that it made Katniss happy – and the thing was, she missed her sister's smile. Her older sister refused to go any holiday, refused to take any break. Her work became her _job, _and her camp became a business. Sure, the cabin windows may be completely mark free, the door hinges silent, the breakeven point surpassed by more than the initial yearly earnings in but five and a half months – but no longer did the famous Katniss – a superhero in many children's eyes - take part in any activities outside of head office. She barely visited the outskirts of the forest herself, anymore…

Prim's gaze softened. "I know you're not very interested in cooking, and neither are you interested in a break right now," she continued before Katniss could interrupt, " – but Gale and I think it's best that you _do _take two or three weeks off so that you can relax and give yourself time to _think." _Prim finished.

Katniss stared at her, biting her lip. "Gale really said that?" She questioned.

Prim nodded. "He's just as much a brother to you as I am your sister, and family watches out for one another."

Katniss grinned weakly, shaking her head and wishing that she could cut the hurt and guilt out of her heart and fill the void with her younger sister's onslaught of love and compassion – something that she was giving so freely, so willingly – and yet something that Katniss's heart simply could not accept right then and there. Because of her weakness, her little duck felt like it was her responsibility to look after Katniss where it should be Katniss looking after Prim. The brunette felt like hitting her head against a wall repeatedly.

She wouldn't be a burden on her family for any longer. She would take these two weeks to work through everything she had going on inside her and resort her life. Worse comes to worst, she would lie about attending the baking course or whatever it was called, instead spending some time reading a stack of self-help novels…which then would be immediately burnt and replaced with a bit of site exploration.

Katniss groaned, tiredly holding out her open palm to Prim.

"Where am I going and who exactly am I learning to cook from?"

Silence.

"…really, Katniss?"

Katniss nodded once.

Prim's answering squeal made her sister's ear throb quite painfully.

"Oh my goodness, you're going to have so much fun – and it's _Mellarco, _Katniss! _Mellarco!_"

The girl who felt as if her head was on fire sunk deeper into the couch, biting back another groan. "I still don't know who this _Mellarco _guy is…" She muttered under her breath.

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**To be continued.**

**What do you think so far? **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** A thank you to my first ever group of reviewers of 'Under the Tuscan sun': _Xoxo, _my two lovely guests, _Sara, Elina-Ann, __JK38, dolly _and of course _Pseudonym808_ and _lknights91. _

Hope you like it, guys!

* * *

"Gate five…gate four…gate two…" Katniss muttered as she stalked the line of large doors that signify the official start to her 'holiday'. Yeah, more like her own personal type of purgatory. What Prim failed to mention was the fact that the amazing Tuscan 'culinary trip of the senses' was occurring during the high season of the Tuscan year, ergo, she was surrounded by honeymooners and loved-up couples. Oh, of course there was the occasional nomad backpacker – a sole explorer like herself, but while they were on a 'quest' to 'discover themselves', Katniss was supposedly in pursuit of the perfect pizza base. She did not tell them this, however, instead opting to declare that she was visiting some friends. What business was it to '_Nigel Bings'_, the scruffy twenty-something year old backpacker, where Katniss was actually going anyway? She wasn't on the stupid plane to make friends; she was on there to get from point A to point B.

Prim is more suited to that sort of thing – the friendly 'sort of thing'. Katniss had always been proud of her little sister; kind, loving, patient, lovable, intelligent, Prim was a girl who melted even the most coolest of dispositions. When the angelic blonde was younger, Katniss worried immensely for Prim – although intelligent, she was naïve and fragile. When the Everdeens had to put down their first pet, a lovable Golden Retriever who slept on the floor beside Prim every single night, Katniss had felt a dull pang of loss. It's funny how you can never truly recall the exact moment when a pet becomes more than just animal – the moment he or she becomes part of the family.

While Katniss was sad, Prim was absolutely devastated. For a whole week, her tears did not abate. She couldn't sleep in her room for the first few days, refusing to as it '_brought back too many painful memories.' _At the age of ten, Prim was indeed fragile in Katniss's eyes. Someone to be protected.

As the years passed on, however, Prim grew mentally and physically. She began to shed her ingenuous skin, becoming more accustomed to the world around her. When their father died, Katniss finally saw the strength in her sister that she had refused to acknowledge for the past few years. Even when she had to glare and chase off the boys who stared at her sister for a second too long, Prim was still the little girl who was afraid of the huge, hairy spiders that always seemed to make a home out of her pink bike. At first, Katniss had felt purposeless – _useless_ – which left her feeling edgy and irritable. It had been _her _job to look after Prim. It had been _her _job to scare all of Prim's bullies. It had been _her _job to make sure that every Friday night; the two sisters would huddle underneath a blanket fort and read scary stories to one another while they ate sugar cookies and warm milk.

Katniss _was _happy that her little sister had grown up to be brave and strong and in no need of her older sister's protection, but still…

Katniss sighed, shaking herself out of her thoughts. She passed another gate labelled with the number 'one'. She groaned. "Where the_ hell_ is gate three?" Twisting her body around, she scanned the wall of gates. Still nothing.

"Argh!" She cried, before furiously stalking to the closest set of seats and dropping her bags with a huff. Along the way, Katniss had angrily chucked her half-empty cup of chocolate frappe in a passing bin, failing to notice the lack of the satisfying _clank _if it had reached its destination. What Katniss _did _notice, however, was the sudden, outraged shriek of a dying animal.

…well, not really a dying animal – but _man, _did it sound like it.

Katniss stiffened, all those self-defence instructions given to her by her father running through her head. She twirled around, trying to locate the source of disturbance.

_Attempted robbery? Sexual predator? Crazy lunatic with a gun? Terrorists?  
_

What Katniss found, however, was something arguably even more frightening. There stood an attractively voluptuous woman in her mid-fifties. Now, Katniss was no fashion expert, but her clothing was obviously expensive and of designer label origins – a pale blue sleeveless dress made of the finest silk, billowing out with every step she took. A pale ivory, cashmere shawl was draped across her pale shoulders, matching the colour of her oversized handbag and very expensive-looking sunglasses. A large, sparkling diamond glittered on her left hand, matching the elegant necklace that glimmered at the base of her throat. Trailing her eyes along the top-half of the woman's body, Katniss gulped nervously. The lady's once gleaming blonde hair that was immaculately styled into a chignon _dripped _with the leftovers of Katniss's chocolate frappe, dribbling into her eyes and seeping into the expensive material of her outfit.

Katniss opened her mouth to say something – _anything – _but decided against it when she realised the woman was turning a frightening shade of red.

_I can actually see the vein in her forehead pulsing…is that even healthy? _Katniss distantly thought.

The woman suddenly sprung, ignoring the small crowd of onlookers, stomping towards Katniss. Up close, Katniss realised the woman had light blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers softly bobbing in a meadow of green.

Such a gentle colour for such a wrathful person…

"How _dare _you throw your rubbish at me, you insolent girl!" She bellowed, eyes darkening into angry pools of murky blue. Her posh British accent carried across the expanse of the waiting area, enticing further onlookers. "Never in my life have I ever seen such repulsive behaviour – such coarse conduct!"

Embarrassingly, Katniss shrunk under her heated gaze, losing her usual bite. "I-I'm sorry, madam…I didn't mean to throw it at you! I was aiming for the bin –"

"- and _lying! _You should be ashamed of yourself! Have you no common courtesy? No ounce of ladylike behaviour?" The woman's gaze trailed down the length of Katniss's body, her lips forming a sneer of disgust. "Then again, I wouldn't expect anything more from a lower-class American such as yourself…"

Katniss stiffened, her eyes flashing. She straightened her back, holding her head up high. "_Excuse _me?" The woman smirked in response, quirking an elegant eyebrow.

"I haven't a clue of why you're journeying to Tuscany, and to be frank, neither do I really care." She paused, stepping closer towards the fuming Katniss. "From your poor choice of clothing, large backpack and uncouth manner of speech, you're obviously just another American backpacker trying to suck some semblance of culture from an 'exotic' landscape."

'_Is this lady honestly for real?' _Katniss thought. '_No, seriously though…what on earth is she taking?' _

"Look, _madam, _I'll happily pay for any damages to your clothing _and _obviously already fragile state of mind –"Katniss began to say before she was interrupted by a masculine hoot coming from somewhere amongst the crowd.

Katniss couldn't help but snort in amusement.

The woman didn't seem to find any humour in the audience's participation. Her reaction, however, was strange. She simply smirked condescendingly and shook her head slowly.

"You cannot _buy _this dress, girl. It is one of a kind – the only silk wrap maxi ever created by _Signor Alistair, _the famous Italian designer from the north." She paused, cocking an eyebrow. "Not that you would know." Dabbing at her ruined shawl, she huffed. "You Americans think you can simply waltz into any country and stake a claim to it." The older woman shook her head once more, eyes darkening into the colour of storm clouds.

Katniss choked on a laugh, completely bemused by the angry woman. "That's _fresh _coming from someone who speaks with a British accent!" She said. "Look, I'm not here to 'stake a claim' to Italy – I'm not even a backpacker to say the very least!" Katniss continued. "You call me rude and uncouth – treat me as if I'm some disgusting fungus – all because I _accidently _stained your pretty new dress!"

"I have never met someone as disrespectful and impolite as you!" The woman shrieked, teeth gnashing together. "Once I arrive home, I am firing the idiot who booked a business class ticket for Morocco to Tuscany – to have me wait with the public! Unheard of!" The woman muttered under her breath.

Katniss had had quite enough. Fishing for her purse, she pulled out three thousand euro and - seeing as acting without thinking was a speciality of Katniss Everdeen – threw it at the older woman who in turn, went slack jawed with horrified astonishment.

"If I can't buy you a new stupid dress, I'll pay for the dry cleaning of your ugly –looking shawl." She declared, earning a chorus of cheers from sections of the crowd.

"Do you not know who I _AM, _you insolent, disgusting, repulsive girl?" The woman screeched, her voice hurting Katniss's ears.

"No, and nor do I really care who you are. Good day, _madam." _Katniss said before twirling around and stomping to her bags, ignoring the further protests of the upper-class woman.

'_Now, where on earth is that stupid gate…?'_

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**AN:** Just to clear it up, I personally have nothing against America/Americans in the very least – they gave me the Hunger Games and Cartoon Network, amongst a whole variety of things. To be completely honest, I hope to visit the country one day! The 'woman's' prejudice will play its part in the story. That's all I'm saying!

Thanks for reading, guys!

**And of course, I would love to hear what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

Katniss mentally kicked herself. Why on earth had she not listened to Prim whilst explaining what Katniss was supposed to do once she arrived at _Peretola _Airport? Although twenty-three, Katniss wasn't really a fan of travelling. She felt helpless, _nervous. _What happened if she missed her flight? Or the car she rented broke down in the middle of nowhere? Or she got sick? Or lost? Or she lost her passport?

No, travel wasn't on the top of Katniss's wish list. She much preferred the familiar, _safe _green forests that were home to her. Her own personal haven. Forests that she hadn't visited in months. Forests that were suddenly replaced with the four walls that made up _Camp Twelve Oaks _head office_. _The place of refuge, memories and discoveries that had become nothing but a _business _to Katniss as of late…

"Scusami, signorina?"

A gentle tap on her shoulder, followed by a soothing voice that seemed to melt like honey in its foreign tongue shook Katniss out of her reverie. She jerked around to find herself face to face with a handsome man with skin the colour of golden maple syrup and eyes a mysterious shade of cinnamon. The man, seemingly in his late twenties or early thirties, was impeccably yet casually dressed. Dark pants were topped by a simple sweater made from a light material with sleeves rolled up to his toned elbows. His Italian leather shoes gleamed underneath the fluorescent Airport lighting. Sunglasses sat atop his dark mop of hair that was casually gelled back, as per the handsome Italian male custom – and was that just a _hint _of gold eyeliner in the corner of his eye?

Katniss never liked handsome men – never trusted them. Their egos were always hitting astronomical levels, willing them to believe that the world and everything in it was theirs for the taking. Add that to the fact that the man was Italian. From all the books she had read and all the television shows she had watched with Prim, Katniss couldn't help but imagine every Italian male with slicked back hair was one of those slimy Lotharios. The men that every female should stay away from.

Oh, what had Prim gotten her into?

"Um…yes? _Si?" _Katniss responded awkwardly. She _had _watched the on-flight 'learn Italian now' tutorial…for the first five minutes. So far, all she knew was how to say _yes, no _and _would you like to come to dinner with me? _The first two were useful, but why on earth would she ever need to ask someone to come to dinner with her? Stupid Italians and their romantic notions…

The man smiled, his impossibly white teeth glinting underneath behind his surprisingly full lips. "You must be Katniss Everdeen!" He exclaims, a perfectly American accent colouring his words. Instantly, Katniss turns weary. She then, however, takes notice of the sign held between the man's hands that read '_Katniss Everdeen.' _

"Primrose informed me of the swap a few weeks ago. It's a pleasure to meet you, _signorina." _ The Italian man who was able to flawlessly switch between languages took her small hand in his, pressing his lips to her slightly calloused knuckles. Straightening up, he took one of her bags from her and hooked it around his shoulders. "I'm Cinna Colombo, your unofficial guide to the beautiful paradise known as Tuscany."

Katniss stared at Cinna, bewildered. "Prim hired me a…_guide?" _A soft smile played at the man's lips. "I own the villa that you will be staying at, Katniss. I usually do not personally pick up my clients, but from how Primrose described you… you interested me." He trailed off before pausing. "I couldn't resist meeting you as soon as possible." Suddenly, he pulled his sunglasses down so that they would cover his eyes and began to navigate his way through the labyrinth of people within the airport. Katniss followed behind dutifully, yet still slightly wary.

"Why is that?" Katniss posed the question almost challengingly, voice a little hoarse.

"Why is what?" Cinna responded.

"Why couldn't you…resist…meeting me?" Katniss felt like a little girl; shy, confused. Thinking about it, she realised that her wording sounded awkward…_needy._ "Why did you go out of your way to meet me?" She rephrased.

Cinna stopped suddenly and turned around to face the younger girl. A gentle crease appeared between his eyebrows. "Most of my clients are just those…clients_," _he began. "They save up enough money to buy a ticket, book a placement at my hotel and have enough left over to go sightseeing or shopping." He paused, searching for words. "They come here for a holiday."

Katniss nodded slowly, not really following. "Yes, so?"

Cinna began walking again, this time waiting for Katniss to catch up. "You didn't come here for a holiday." His statement was straightforward and resolute. "You didn't come to Tuscany to lose yourself within your senses…to experience a whirlwind romance…to explore the beautiful sights this soil has to offer." He continued.

Katniss stared at Cinna, eyebrow quirked. No, she wasn't there to 'lose herself', and by no means take part in any bodice-ripping romantic adventure. She was there to attend a stupid baking course while also giving herself a break from everyday life in order to appease Prim and Gale at the same time. "I'm here to…relax." Katniss offered.

Cinna glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a sad smile gracing his lips. "No…you're not. And that's the saddest thing." He said softly.

Cinna was a quiet man, a man who preferred to listen to a greater, more infinite voice than his own. Idle chit chat was not his forte. Of course, his association and links to a myriad of upper-class and famous individuals forced him to have no choice but to excel in polite tête-à-tête. If need be, Cinna Colombo could charm the habit off a nun, making his weekly dealings with rich, egomaniacs relatively effortless – if not trying at times. Unlike many of his clients, Cinna had _worked _his way to success, as opposed to inherited it. From the little poor boy who spent his childhood working on his family's farm in _San Gimignano,_ to the adolescent boy who snuck out to the local river every evening, sketch book in one hand and a leftover piece of charcoal in the other, Cinna had always dreamed of something _bigger _than his monotonous provincial life. At nineteen, he took a chance. Using his secret savings obtained through his job as a picker at his godfather's olive farm, Cinna bought a ticket to America and worked his way to a better life.

It took years. Years of hard work, rejections, loneliness. Years of isolation due to not knowing the English language. His own family never forgave him for 'deserting' them – never forgave him for allowing his distant cousin _Alberto _to inherit the farm that had been in the hands of the _Colombo _family for decades. After four years of trying to contact his mother and father, he accepted the fact that they meant the heart wrenching things that they said in their last letter addressed to him.

At that point, Cinna had found himself apprenticed to a nationally recognised designer whose graphic art had been featured in an international festival. Older than him but by five years, Portia quickly became more than just his employer…she became his closest friend. She encouraged him to steer towards designing clothes, rather than business logos and product packaging. Portia knew he had an eye for detail and silhouettes – a remarkable, intangible understanding and appreciation of the human shape. Cinna's designs were not suited to the business world. In the strict, unbending world of income and profit, Cinna Colombo's unearthly designs could not be truly appreciated.

It only took an unbelievable two years for Cinna to establish a name for himself, and another nine months for his label to be intentionally recognised and sought out. Portia quit her career in graphic art, instead opting to bend to Cinna's pleading for her to take care of business matters, as well as design her own sub-branch of accessories under his label.

Despite his lack of biological family and his occasional feeling of displacement in his new country, Cinna had never felt as happy as he did then. Portia, although not his lover by any means, became the best friend he could always lean on, and vice versa. Together, they navigated their way through fame and fortune, through colour and pattern, through parchment and material.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for Cinna to realise that his boyish fantasies of fame were just that…_fantasies. _For a few months, Cinna discovered the designer's equivalent to writer's block. Every time he placed pencil to paper, he froze. Blank pages began to invade his dreams, goading him with their empty, white expanses. Cinna became nervous, jittery – prone to days of silence and isolation. His great, brilliant mind had no outlet. He never ate, barely slept.

It was during that time that he recognised the monster within himself, within every person, something so grotesque and hideous that left him petrified like stone for days, locked within his linen cupboard and huddled within the safety of the darkness. After a few days of ignored phone calls, Portia, who was on a business trip in England, anxiously flew over and found him in that terrible state. Cinna remembered very little of those few weeks after- his thoughts became labyrinthine and every dead-end he hit seemed dimly familiar, inducing a wave of panic when he began to think that he wasn't _moving. _

It came out of nowhere. One minute, he was huddled beneath a heavy blanket in the linen closet, and then he suddenly felt rays of sun hit his cold skin. The air around him felt different. He realised he couldn't smell the scent of diesel or couldn't hear the blare of honking horns from the distant highway.

"_Where am I?" _He asked no one in particular, voice croaky from disuse.

Portia's surprisingly tanned face appeared in front of him, her plump fingers running through his limp hair.

"You're in Tuscany, Cinna." She responded softly. "You're _home, _darling."

And indeed, Cinna _was _home. The concrete labyrinth of the city he once lived in seemed to have sucked the _soul _out of Cinna. Back in his natural habitat, he could _breathe _again.

The Tuscan hills have a thousand ways of holding light in their hollows. Peace seems to reside in the landscape, and Cinna _felt _rather than thought that the beauty surrounding people in rural Tuscany contributed enormously to the overall contentment with life. He went back to designing – really designing. There was no barrier anymore. As soon as pen touched parchment, colours, shapes, patterns – they are flew from his agile hand and nimble fingers, creating masterpieces only reachable when he tapped into an almost transcendent mental state. He bought a villa in _Pienza, _a town and comune in the province of Siena, in the Val d'Orcia in Tuscany. He and Portia kept their apartment in New York, but Cinna rarely left Italy, instead dealing with his international clients from the various villas he eventually bought across the expanse of the Val d'Orcia. Dawns here are sweet, iridescent streaks of ivory and peach, so quiet that sometimes, standing by his window, Cinna felt as if he could _hear _his fennel and _Roma _tomatoes growing in his vegetable garden. Grandeur is a word he hears every so while when the odd ostentatious client describes to him her vision of the perfect dress. But sitting there, right outside of his villa window every single morning, there is grandeur in its purest form: sunrise.

Cinna no longer mass produced his designs. His creations were unique and one of a kind – with he himself designing them, stitching them and creating them with love and care. His designs could now reflect him as a _person, _something that very rarely occurred in the modern age.

And so, Cinna found peace. Without the constant work distractions, Portia too, found happiness. His name was Marcus, a freelance poet who she met on a French flight. He was, in Cinna's humble opinion, a dazzling man with a very _real _zest for life. A man who ignited a passion within Portia, forcing a dazzling smile to stretch across her lips. Every month, Portia would remove herself from any business or personal matters, choosing to spend a few weeks with Cinna – sometimes her lover, and sometimes without.

Yes, Cinna was finally at peace. He had his family. He had his community. He had his passion and he had his health. The road to get there was a long and tiring one, but he was _happy. _

Staring at the nervous, exhausted looking girl, he felt a pang of sadness. When her younger sister, Prim, had told him a little bit about her situation, a strange sense of compassion for the girl called _Katniss _had been felt by Cinna. When he finally met her, she appeared to be so disheartened, so _tired, _so lonely…

'_A broken heart that has never actually been broken…' _Cinna mused.

Katniss was not in Tuscany to 'relax'. She was not in Tuscany to enjoy herself. To Cinna, it seemed as if she was…running _away _from something – something more than just the death of her father. '_Such heavy burdens for such a beautiful girl,' _he thought. Indeed, even in her jet-lagged, frazzled state, Katniss possessed an atypical form of beauty: although willowy, Cinna could see the wiry muscles that lay underneath her _peaches and cream_ skin. A light splatter of fading freckles covered her nose and cheekbones, alluding to a potential love of the outdoors. When he caught sight of her eyes, Cinna momentarily paused, shocked.

Although muted and deeply hidden, there was a flickering flame that shone within her tired, dull grey eyes. Just by gazing at her eyes, Cinna knew that underneath all the hurt, all the pain, all the exhaustion…Katniss was a girl on fire. She may refuse to admit it to herself, let alone anyone else, but Katniss was capable of passion, of _fire. _

Cinna inwardly smirked. It would be fun to have a spitfire around some of the more annoying clients…

He was glad that he had come to personally meet the young girl, and was eager to see how she would blossom on the healing, invigorating Tuscan soil. And, _who knows, _perhaps Katniss would meet someone that would show her the ways of love.

"Your car suits you." Katniss said suddenly.

Cinna shook himself from his musings with a small smile painted across his lips.

"Thank you, Katniss."

The two continued towards what appeared to be Cinna's vintage, red coloured _MG_. Throwing her bags in the back, Cinna opened the door for Katniss, before hopping into the driver's seat himself. Before starting the ignition, he passed her a piece of silky material that featured an intricate pattern of paisleys. She glanced at him, questioningly. "What's this for?"

He allowed a slight grin. He seemed to be grinning around her quite a lot…something that usually only ever happened around Portia.

"It's so that your hair doesn't whip you in the face as we travel at a high velocity, _cara." _He explained.

Katniss frowned. "So I just… wrap it around my head?" she said, awkwardly. Cinna rolled his eyes and started the ignition.

"You're hopeless."

Katniss may not have known Cinna for more than an hour, but there was something there…something that made her feel like she could _trust _him. Or rather, she didn't need to be constantly on guard around him. Katniss did not ever make friends easily – she could be snappy, bossy, irritable and closed off. Not many people liked her, if she was to be completely honest, instead finding themselves gravitating towards the younger Everdeen sister. The thing was, Katniss preferred it this way – especially when she was younger. When she first opened the camp, she was surprised to discover the children…_liked her. _That they actually looked up to her and idolized her. Around them, she wasn't the quiet, dislikeable and slightly socially awkward Everdeen sister that only a few people really liked. Around those kids, she felt at peace. She gave them knowledge and confidence, and they gave her things to smile about.

Glancing at Cinna out of the corner of her eye, Katniss suddenly deciding that she liked him and trusted him. Strange, yes, but she always trusted her instincts. She took a certain sense of comfort from knowing that she now had someone who she could call a friend in this foreign land.

"Have you ever heard the saying, '_Tuscany is a world; Italy is a Universe', _Katniss?" Cinna questioned as they began to move forward. Katniss shook her head.

"Well, it may just be a common saying, but it's one hundred per cent correct."

Katniss settled back into her seat, listening intently to Cinna as he spoke about the villa that she will staying at, the little town where he grew up, the impossibly wonderful taste of freshly baked, crunchy Tuscan bread…

She couldn't resist her next comment.

"While we're on the topic of bread, would you be so kind as to explain what on_ earth _is so special about this _Peeta_ _Mellarco _guy?" She paused for effect. "Does he…I don't know…bake bread made out of edible gold or something?"

"Now _come, _what's with the extreme interest in Peeta?" Cinna couldn't resist teasing her. Katniss glared at him, her cheeks darkening into a rosy hue.

"No, of _course _not. I just don't get why everyone is going crazy about him." She shook her head as if to clear it, before turning her gaze towards the passing landscape. "He must be some famous jerk if Prim likes him. I still don't understand why she forced me into this" She muttered.

Cinna glanced at Katniss, mind reeling. "You seem to dislike him before even meeting him." He stated simply. Katniss ignored Cinna, pretending not to hear him.

Turning his gaze back to the road, Cinna hid a grin. "He isn't a bad person, Katniss. Don't fret about your lack of culinary skill – he won't yell at you or anything."

Katniss jerked to face the man beside her, sputtering and at loss of what to say. It wasn't her cooking skills that worried her (but now as she thought about it, perhaps it was something to consider), it was the fact that she would have to be stuck in a room full of eyelash-batting girls who giggled and pouted as some young, Ken-lookalike taught them how to _raise the dough. _Ugh! On top of that, Katniss didn't _want _to participate in some expensive culinary retreat!

"I can cook pancakes." She opted to say instead.

Cinna chuckled.

"You act like you know him." Katniss said suddenly, without thinking.

Cinna nodded absently. "I've been designing what he wears for the past three years, and since then, we've been on friendly terms." He quickly glanced at her, watching her unchanging expression. "He actually lives-." Cinna paused, weighing his options.

Perhaps it would be better to leave out the fact that Peeta's family villa was within walking distance to Cinna's personal villa – the very one that Katniss would now be staying at. No, the town-house he owned in the central town would not do. Katniss would stay at Cinna's villa. It was large enough to fit ten families, so the girl's scrawny body wouldn't pose a problem.

And, who knows? It is the apple harvest season – and his gardens are absolutely _splendid _around this time of year. Perhaps Mr and Mrs Mellarco would join him for a little _festa…_

Well, it would be preferable if Mrs Mellarco wouldn't come, but sadly, beggars can't be choosers.

Glancing towards Katniss, Cinna smiled softly. Perhaps there _would _be love in the air this season…

* * *

**AN: **You don't know how _tempted _I was to introduce Peeta within this chapter. I can't explain the extent of my temptation. In saying that, however, the story has to progress at a natural state. Let's just say that during the two days before the cooking actually starts, Katniss will be making a few..._friends. _

__Oh, and _spoiler alert: _Peeta Mellarco likes motorbikes...

**Hope you liked this chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Ok, so I ended writing a single, mammoth chapter which meant that I either had to post it as aforementioned '_single mammoth chapter_' (which would be pretty difficult to read), or post it as two separate chapters.

I chose the second option. It was much easier to read. The next chapter will be added in literally _minutes_, promise.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it all the same - especially the description of Cinna's 'crib'. Oh, if only I owned my own villa...

Happy reading!

* * *

"Many Tuscans consider the Val d'Orcia to be the most beautiful part of Tuscany." Cinna begins as the car carrying the two passengers zips past the dizzying expanse of the incredibly beautiful landscape. For the past hour, nothing but an almost overwhelming amount of green countryside filled Katniss's vision. The rolling hills, each with their own unique collection of dips, slopes and peaks, were tattooed by sections of yellow – wheat crops that grew in abundance within the fertile Tuscan soil. The occasional brick or stone house dotted the landscape, partly hidden by large pines or stone walls. The valley had its very own intricate network of flora and fauna, plants and trees that Katniss had only ever seen on television or in travel magazines. The very smell of air tasted different to Katniss, and she discovered the strange urge to want to count ever single red poppy that peppered the virgin soil.

"Whenever I get out of the car at _Pienza_, even the fresh, pine-scented air feels like a gift." Cinna pauses, flicking his gaze towards Katniss as she turns her face upwards, soaking in the rays of the comforting Tuscan sun. "_Home," _he continues softly, "an instinctive sense, a sense to trust and follow."

Katniss glances towards him, pensive. "You really love it here, don't you Cinna?"

A small smile stretches across his lips. "This place is more than just beautiful and comforting – it's _magical." _

Katniss scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Right." She responds sarcastically.

Cinna straightens his sunglasses, throwing a smirk in Katniss's direction. "Ah, I have a reluctant cynical on my hands!" He mockingly declares with a flourish of his wrist. Katniss glares at him. "I'm not cynical." Pausing, she adds "-and I'm not reluctant, either!"

"Yes, you are, Katniss." He counters. Before she could argue, he continues. "For example, take the tale of my roses."

The girl rolls her eyes, taking the bait. "What about your roses, Cinna?"

"The villa that I had bought in Pienza had been abandoned for almost fifty years due to the fact that it was partly a heritage site." He begins. "No one wanted this particular estate. Real estate agents had long ago given up on advertising it. It needed a lot of work and the locals that _were _interested simply could not afford the upkeep if they chose to restore it to a liveable state."

He began to trace patterns into the steering wheel. "Rebuilding and restoring that house became my new project. With roof tile that was replaced, with every curtain that I added to the French windows – I slowly began to piece my life together, starting from the foundations up," he pauses, flashing a grin, "excuse the pun."

Glancing back towards the road, he realises that he would be reaching an intersection very soon. It was strange, a little frightening and extremely exciting thinking that by simply choosing to turn right instead of left, Cinna was potentially sealing a new fate for Katniss.

A much happier fate.

"Anyway, when I first explored the place, I discovered a section of roses behind one of the old barns – pink, yellow, red, white – that had seemingly survived _and_ prospered through fifty years of dry seasons and neglect." Glancing towards Katniss, he catalogued her blank expression – not bored, exasperated or sarcastic – just…_blank. _

'_Perhaps a lifetime of thinking emotions were signs of weakness rather than natural human responses…' _Cinna muses inwardly.

Immediately, he knew he was correct to assume that she did not see the small miracle of the roses - the impossibility of their soft, delicate scent that intermingled with the perfume of Cinna's delightful collection of olive trees during the harvest season. She could not see past her structured world of logicality. Katniss couldn't acknowledge the magic that wove its wave into the very essence of the Tuscan soil.

"Do you not see the sheer magic of it all?" Cinna prods, right hand gesturing dramatically.

Katniss's lip quirked into a fractional smile, amused due to Cinna's spirited personality. She sobered quickly, however, realising that behind his rueful grin, the man required a serious answer. Glancing back at the sunlit valley, Katniss shrugged her shoulders. "They're just flowers, Cinna." She murmurs.

He shakes his head sadly. "The magic is _there, _Katniss…you just have to open your eyes to see it."

Disgruntled by his vague comments, she turns her vision back towards the passing blur of the landscape, discovering an oncoming intersection. Frowning, Katniss consulted her map where a little highlighted circle was helpfully drawn in by Prim, making it easier for Katniss to pinpoint the town where she will live for the next three weeks. Glancing back up at the oncoming road, her frown deepens, creating miniature dips in her forehead.

"Cinna, where are you…the town is the _other _way."

The man in question simply shakes off her comment, continuing down the right exit.

Katniss opens her mouth once more, her lips forming the shape of her next comment, but Cinna cuts her off, voice calm.

"I must have forgotten to mention to Primrose that the original villa you were going to stay in was experiencing plumbing problems." His voice is casual; light. "Usually, I would let it go for customers who were staying for but a few days, but you're staying for a few weeks. It will simply not do." He concludes.

Katniss's expression morphs into one of concern. "So…where am I supposed to stay now?"

"Pienza."

She frowned, confused. "In the same town as you?"

Cinna bit back the urge to twirl an imaginary moustache like some evil villain in a play. _'I've got to stay away from that sugar-loaded Baci Ice-cream. It always makes me feel so peculiar…' _he thinks to himself.

"Try under the same roof." He responds.

A myriad of emotions flash across Katniss's pale face, shocking him momentarily. Quickly, she settles for one of discomfort.

"No, Cinna, I can't do that. I will not intrude on your privacy – you only just met me!"

Cinna batts away her protests, shaking his head. "It matters not that we have only just met, Katniss. I feel like I've known you for an age." Seeing Katniss's wavering expression, he throws his final argument at her. "-And anyway, Portia cannot visit me this month. It will be nice to have some company. Plus, I have a feeling that you will prefer this villa over the initial one."

Katniss sighs. "It's not about what I would _prefer-"_

"-there's a lovely forest that surrounds the very outskirts of my land, full of game." Cinna pauses. "Well, that's what the locals tell me anyway…" He trails off, glancing at Katniss from the corner of his eye. He notices the slight glimmer in her eyes when he mentions the forest.

"Apparently there's also a lake in there somewhere – perfect for moonlight swimming sessions – but I've personally never have been able to find it." The last part he says is the truth, sadly. Cinna has heard of the beauty of this lake, but has never been able to see it for himself – and if there is anything that upsets Cinna, it is being unable celebrate beauty in its purest form.

Katniss worries her lip, weighing out her options. Finally, she lets out a little sigh, her lips twitching into the shadow of a smile. "If you're _sure, _Cinna. Otherwise I will happily find a hotel or something…" She says.

"You will be doing me a great favour, Katniss."

* * *

_**Katniss POV**_

Staring outside of my open window, I almost had the mind to thank Prim for her annoying efforts in trying to get me to have a holiday. _Almost. _

I actually had to blink a couple of times when I first caught sight of Cinna's villa. When he had said _villa, _I had imagined something like a transformed terracotta barn – some structure that shone yellow, brown, red and orange under the hot sun. What I discovered was something else entirely.

My jaw dropped when I first saw the recently restored thirteenth century _castle. _Glowing a vintage white, it stood atop a hill with sweeping views of innumerable hectares of olive groves, vineyards, forests and meadows carpeted with red poppies. A large greenhouse presided on the west side of the back garden, filled with an exotic array of colours and scents. Manicured lawns dotted with flowers placed in patterned lines surrounded the double story estate, their images reflected on the huge arched windows of the villa. Stables could be seen in the distance, closer towards the olive groves. A lovely, alfresco terrace was situated on the roof of the estate, perfect for entertaining a small group of close friends with a bottle of wine, delicious food and a collection of humorous tales.

Despite the grandeur of the exterior, the interior of the villa was relatively simple – large, spacious and elegant, of course, but simple nonetheless.

Upon entering, the house felt large and spacious – cool and refined- with its white focal colour. The living room was minimalistic with its incredibly high ceilings, grey stone feature wall and large focal fireplace. The furnishings and décor were, once again, elegant yet understated. The marble floor was a cool welcoming from the blazing Tuscan sun. The open-space living prevented me from feeling trapped within a well-furnished cage. The kitchen was a mix of charming Tuscan features such as a beamed ceiling, as well as Cinna's signature minimalistic décor. With his sleek, pale décor, dotted with bursts of vibrant colours such as a vase of sunflowers or a beautiful painting, Cinna made the large villa feel more like a well-used home, rather than just another building he owned. You could especially see this through the pile of open books strewn around his study that overlooked the manicured gardens below. You could see this through the strange stain – which turned out to be pink nail polish – on his leather couch. You could see this through the half-used jars of herbs and spices that hung from the white cabinets in his kitchen.

Cinna loved this villa – that could not be denied – but I couldn't help but wonder if he ever felt lonely in this beautiful maze of rooms. Being me, of course, I blurted out my question despite its inappropriateness. He had simply smiled and made me follow him to his "most favourite room in the whole house."

It was funny how he kept on referring to it as a house…

When he opened the large white double doors, I gasped in surprised. A large, white work space was covered in large sketchbooks and the odd sheet of scribbled-on parchment. Large white bags hung on clothing racks that lined the walls of the room. Another desk was covered with neatly piled pieces of material, as well as a simple sewing machine.

"I create clothing for the stars – it helps me with the upkeep of the vineyards and olive groves – thus allowing me to not only provide jobs for the locals, but to also sell the harvest to the local producers." Subdued pride coloured his tone as he continued "I supply Marco, who is both a customer and a good friend, with the majority of the olive yearly harvest. He makes the best olive oil in the whole east of Tuscany."

"Anyway, the clothing I design for the rich and famous is only a means of earning an income. My true passion lies within this collection of sketchbooks…" He trailed off, reaching for a particular leather bound sketchbook. He handed it to me and urged me to flick through it. Another gasp left my lips. What I saw were not simple, everyday pieces of cloth and material stitched together. Oh no, what I discovered were pieces of artwork.

Intricate, delicate, elegant, unique – slices of emotion and personality in every intricate stich, every detailed pattern. I had never been an avid follower of art. I never understood what I was supposed to 'feel' when I looked at a white dot in the middle of a black canvas. I felt strangely vulnerable as I gazed at the naked bodies of human sculptures. Art wasn't my thing.

But gazing those beautiful sketches, I felt like I knew what each and every drawing was supposed to be about. I thought I could almost imagine what Cinna was feeling and thinking when he sketched the folds of the silk, the shimmer of the gossamer in the skirt, the shine of the pearl buttons…

"They're beautiful, Cinna…" I whispered, lost for words.

He smiled radiantly, seemingly pleased with something in my response.

"The house _does _get lonely at times, I'll admit," he began, "but most of the time, I'm either outside sketching or inside this room, sewing or drawing."

He gazed fondly at the sketchbook that I held gently with my hands. "The house began as a challenge – a challenge to rebuild myself along with the house. My attachment to it grew, however." He shook his head fondly, absently running a hand across the ivory wall. "Sometimes I wish I had a large family to fill it, but I am content nonetheless. I have friends and neighbours who drop by often. I take daily walks to central town – and right now, I have _you." _

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I sigh. Cinna was kind of like me in a strange way, but also very, _very _different. Just as he had me for a friend, I think I now could count him as one, too.

Oh, Gale would be surprised with my sudden increase in sociability, I am _sure…_

After my little private tour around the house, Cinna and I ate dinner – a mixture of antipasti, crunchy bread, cold meats and a large serving of _Moscardini in insalata, _to which I later found out were grilled baby octopuses, drizzled in white wine, lemon and olive oil, further complimented by a large serving of salad. There was also a strange, reddish purple and white salad placed on the table. When I asked Cinna what it was, he told me that the Italians enjoy a type of salad made up of blood orange and fennel, sprinkled with a pinch of sugar.

I learnt that I wasn't a huge fan of fennel.

Feeling jetlagged, I bid Cinna _buonanotte, _and tiredly made my way up to my second-story room that overlooked the west side of the estate. Strangely enough, as I quickly undressed by the window, I noticed another large stone mansion in the nearby distance. Cinna never mentioned a nearby family, but then again, he probably never even thought about it…

Yawning, I stretched my arms high above my head and sank into the bed that would be mind for the remainder of the trip.

As soon as my head hit my pillow, my world went black and my mind slipped into a peaceful slumber.

* * *

**I hope you guys liked it! As always, I would love to hear what you think. **

Next chapter will be up in the next couple of minutes :)


	5. Chapter 5

_**Peeta POV**_

"Ok so, _Signor Mellarco, _the preparations for your first solo course has been officially finalised. Do you want one last brief rundown of what's going to happen?" Eliza, my assistant, asked in her usual polite yet no-nonsense tone.

I sighed. No matter how many times I ask her to not to address me so formally, she refuses to let up. I'm younger than her by ten years – it just doesn't seem fitting! Alas, she is headstrong when it comes to getting her own way, especially when she thinks she is right.

"Of course, Eliza." I respond absently.

"_Va bene, allora: _we're throwing you off the deep end and starting off with quite a large group. Seventeen people, ninety-eight per cent females, save for one or two males." She begins.

I feel like bashing my head against the wall as soon as she begins. Not only is the group a large one, but it is full of girls. Now, don't get me wrong, I can appreciate a beautiful looking female almost any hour of the day – the gentle curve of a hip, the swell of a breast, the curl of a piece of soft, golden hair – I am attracted to beauty just as a moth is attracted to the moonlight that guides him through the darkness of the night. I love touching the soft femininity of their bodies – so unlike mine in every way. It's sensual. It's exciting.

Yes, being starved compared to my older brothers, I immensely enjoy the alluring beauty that the female sex possesses…just _not_ in my kitchen, surrounded by potential death traps.

When my father first went solo, a woman's ponytail caught on fire, leaving behind large burns across her palms, her neck and the crown of her head. She had simply turned her attention away from the stove for only a few seconds…

There was a rule now in place that required long hair having to be put up in a bun, away from any person's face.

I'm not the favourite brother by any means . No, Rye is the charming joker that haa confidence coming out of his ears. Girls constantly flock around him, gravitating towards his genuine yet slightly boisterous personality. Beaufort is the intelligent, witty brother – the one that girls call 'intense', squealing whenever they were in a five mile radius of him. I am considered the cute, talented chef with the damaged leg. The last single brother – well, that is if Beau doesn't end up breaking up with his girlfriend. _Again. _

I guess my fame and fortune made up for my physical ailments.

Still, I won't lie and deny the fact that I am a highly sought-out bachelor in the world of the rich and famous. Indeed, I find myself strangely very popular among the upper-class. Years ago, however, my family were average folk, owners of a local bakery in the middle of central America. We weren't famous, nor were we overly rich, but we were happy. My dad, a kind, generous man, was a natural cook. Not only was he talented in his field, but he enjoyed the little things that came with running his business – the conversations he had over the counter with locals, the smiles that lit up the faces of little children when he snuck them a large cookie behind their mothers' backs.

At times, I felt guilty. Terribly so. At times, I simply could not fathom the reason why my father married my mother. How could someone so gentle and loving marry someone so cold, so calculating, so indifferent?

Perhaps I am being cruel. In her defence, she wasn't always like this. When the bakery had just opened, I was only six years old. I remember her warm, motherly hugs. The sugar cookies she used to make for me when I suffered through a nightmare. I _try _to remember those times, but I have found it increasingly difficult over the past few years. It seemed almost suddenly that my mother's thoughts towards the bakery, as well as her general personality, changed. My mother began to pour over the bank books every day, scribbling in notes that I didn't understand at the point. She began to yell at dad whenever she caught him giving out free cookies to children only to see them smile.

'_We're not a God damn charity, Balthar! This is a business – a failing one at that! You are so pathetic that you can't even look after your own family properly!' Mum hissed, face blotchy. _

Scared and shaking, only nine years of age, I hid behind the doorframe as I saw her throw something heavy at my dad – a paperweight or something similar in size and shape. I whimpered softly as dad ducked out of the way just in time, yelling at his wife to stop in case she woke up the kids.

'_I thought this is what you wanted, Thalia! We always spoke of a family, a beautiful home, a business that we could pass down the family!' _Dad responded. '_We've almost hit the breakeven line. Sure, it's been a little hard to get started up, but we knew the difficulties we would initially face. It will get better, darling.' _His voice was soft, cautious, as if he were in the midst of calming down a wild animal.

Mum started sobbing, flinching away from dad when he tried to wrap his thick, muscled arms around her. '_I hate this life, Balthar. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate you for making me live this life.' _She had sobbed, voice breaking throughout her declaration. I was only young at the time, hiding behind the door and trembling as I realised that mum had changed – that she wasn't happy around me and dad and Rye and Beaufort.

It took a few years after that for dad to be offered the job as head chef in an Italian, five-star restaurant. He lived in Southern Italy alone for a whole year, sending his income to us over in America. When Rye and Beau both hit the age of seventeen, they too moved to Europe, becoming dad's official apprentices when he saved up enough money to open his own restaurant. _Mellarco, _he named it – a sort of inside joke between him and his new Italian friends who found it initially difficult to correctly pronounce our last name.

The _Mellarco _name truly rose to fame thanks to my older brothers, Rye and Beaufort. Both considered exotically handsome – pale, blemish-free skin, hair the colour of crystalized honey, and eyes a deep sea blue and a well-muscled body due to the heavy bags of flour they had to lug around every day. The Italian girls went wild for them, raising them from 'sons of the head chef', to 'most allegeable bachelors in the whole north of Italy. Daughters of high profile persons in society – lawyers, businessmen, doctors, politicians and the general upper-class – begged to have their families book a reservation at our restaurant. My brothers' enjoyed the attention . With their natural charm, charismatic nature and twinkling eyes, they found themselves invited to large parties of pretty socialites.

They were also eagerly invited the _beds _of said socialites…

When my mother learnt of the business's success, she dropped everything, bought two plane tickets – one for her and one for me – and left America behind for good.

I found myself adapting to my new lifestyle quite easily, if I am to be honest. As the business prospered, the _Mellarco _name grew. Our restaurant became a hot spot for celebrities. Dad got his own cooking show, something that he refused to do…until my mother forced him to. Surprisingly, however, dad grew to enjoy making the series. He became an international hit with his genuine love for food and his authentic Italian recipes. Over the years, however, he has grown withdrawn – quiet. He spends most of his time at the restaurant or traveling over Italy in order to discover suppliers that provide the highest quality organic produce.

My mother spends most of her time shopping in Paris or Milan, entertaining the wives of rich business men or taking 'much needed holidays'. She isn't home very often. Alessandra, the housekeeper she hired for our new home in Pienza, is more of a mother figure to me. Signora Alessandra_ – _or _Nonna Ally_ as I call her – is a very short Italian woman in her late sixties. She isn't actually my grandmother, of course, but she lost her husband when he was only twenty-two years of age. She never remarried and never had any kids of her own.

In a way, I guess, she considers Rye, Beaufort and I as her own grandsons – the grandchildren she never had. In saying that, however, I did seem to have become her favourite over the years, something that Beau relentlessly teased me for. I still think he did it because he was jealous. I always get the most cannoli whenever she decides to make them…

Nonna Ally is plump and kind, but prone to being bossy the majority of the time. She is also quite scary when she becomes angry. Once, when I was around fifteen, Rye dared me to eat a handful of dirt. Being an overconfident teen, I readily agreed. Long story short, I ate the dirt and couldn't stop vomiting for the next fifteen hours. _Nonna Ally _had dragged me by the ear and into bed, tucking the sheets around me so tightly that I couldn't move from the neck down.

"_Ma sei veramente cosi stupido?" _She began. "Chissà che tipo di cose pericolose potrebbe essere nel tuo stomaco in questo momento!" She cried, half in anger and half in concern as she pushed back the hair that fell across his forehead, feeling for any fever.

"_Nonno Ally, basta! Stop – come on, I'm fine." _I countered, gently pushing away her plump little fingers. "_It was only a little dirt and – look- I'm all better now!_" I paused, pulling out my winning grin that always melted her heart. "_In fact, ho fame. Can you ask Rye to bring me some leftover pasta from last night?" _

Instead of agreeing, she glared at me, eyes glinting furiously. "_If you wasn't so malato, I would-a hit you with wooden spoon._" She roughly fluffed my pillow and pulled the blanket tighter around my body. I remember feeling as if I could barely breathe. She hobbled her way towards the door, before telling me that if I so as much get up to pace around my room, she will find me and lock my up in the cellar. Throwing another half concerned glare over her shoulder, she hobbled her way into the corridor and shut the door with a click.

The scary thing was that I was not completely sure if she was joking or not.

"_Peeta?" _

Eliza's exasperated voice suddenly shook me out of my reverie. From my upside-down position on the couch, I shot my PA a grin. "You called me by my first name." I teased.

She glowered at me, huffing impatiently. "Yes, yes. Well, if it makes you actually _listen, _then I guess I will have to use it from now on."

I chuckled, half surprised and half impressed. Hefting myself back into position, I crossed my legs and gave her my full attention, hands folded on my lap. "Ok, I'm listening."

Cocking an eyebrow, Eliza flicked through her neatly bound booklet and found the particular document she was looking for. Clearing her throat, she began.

"As I was saying, there are twenty people in total. I believe you have met quite a few of the ladies, in fact. At your mother's charity functions?"

Ha. Mother's charity functions. More like an excuse to parade me around the rich and famous in hopes of securing a high profile match for me. Don't believe me? When mother discovered the power her two eldest sons had over the rich, female population, she immediately began trying to match her sons with heiresses, daughters of businessmen or even daughters of high profile politicians. At first, Rye and Beau were all for it. The girls were attractive and, as they once drunkenly told me, those girls always _'put out.' _Soon, however, mother grew tired of their constantly changing girlfriends.

'_Just pick one of the heiresses, for heaven's sake!' _She once angrily yelled at Rye when he arrived home drunk from yet another party. Being five years older than me, he fell victim to the insane party life of the young and rich before I was even allowed to walk to town by myself.

The thing was, my brothers – particularly Beau – didn't want to get married in their early twenties, and especially to some rich girl their mother thought would be advantageous to their family name and reputation. When Rye eventually came home from a three month trip to the UK, he also brought home a new girlfriend. A girlfriend, the _Mellarcos _quickly discovered, that he had been secretly seeing for the past nine months.

Oh, the miracle of modern technology such as webcams…

Aislin Rothfield was a lovely, bubbly girl a year younger than Rye. She was at least a head shorter than my brother, with a very curvy body. Her inferno of curly red hair reached just below her shoulders, making her seem a few inches taller than she actually was. She had green, almond shaped eyes that crinkled at the edges when she laughed – which she seemed to do quite a lot- and not that silly type of twittering that those rich girls do, but an actual laugh.

She was studying to be a vet.

Mum immediately disliked her. Aislin was nothing like the girls my mother paraded in front of Rye. Father, on the other hand, was immediately taken with her wit and light-heartedness, so suited to Rye's personality.

She and my brother are still together, even after two and a half years. Mother refused to break her promise, though. She and Rye still do not speak.

"Oh, look! The governor's daughter, _Clove_ is attending the course – as is that popular young actress that goes by the name of _Glimmer. _Such a strange name…"

I groaned once more. Mother is sure to encourage me to become friendly with someone as powerful as the _governor's daughter. _This whole experience will not be about the food, I feel it already. In mother's eyes, it's nothing but a power play. A game of networking. I am nothing but one of her pawns on her metaphorical chessboard.

I sigh softly. Hopefully they're attractive.

"May I see the rest of the list, Eliza?" I ask suddenly, stretching out my hand. She nods.

Fingering the document, I scan the page for the table with the names of the course's attendants. Finding it, I bite my lip in trepidation.

_Clove Vipointe…Glimmer Combe…Cecelia Wellwood…Annie Cresta…Finnick Odair…Katniss Everdeen…_

Wait, hang _on._

Quickly backtracking, I scan the names once more and frown, staring at one name in particular.

"Shit," I exclaimed.

"Don't swear, Peeta." Eliza intones, not looking up from the document she is highlighting. I scramble towards her, pushing the piece of paper clenched between my hands in her line of vision.

"Is that is mistake? A joke, perhaps?" I say, voice deadpanned. She shoots me a curious look.

"No, I don't believe so."

Groaning, I plonk back onto the couch dramatically. "He's going to make the next two weeks a living hell." I mutter to myself.

Eliza cocks an eyebrow inquisitively. "Who is going to make your life a living hell?"

I smile tiredly at her. "My dear friend _Finnick Odair, _Eliza." Grumbling, I slide the document back onto the coffee table and roll over to my stomach, my face pushing into the decorative cushion.

"Don't try to suffocate yourself, young man. You have sixteen girls who are very eager to learn how to bake under your direction."

Normally, I would be caught off guard by Eliza's joking tone, but I just can't get my mind off Finnick and the trouble that he will _most definitely _cause over the next two weeks.

I groan into the pillow once more.

* * *

Being the last day before the cooking course officially begins, I decide that I would spend it in the town square – _Piazza Dente di Leone. _It is a beautiful day where the temperature allows me to wear a plain white t-shirt over a simple pair of dark blue jeans. Pulling them on, I deliberately stare at the floor, a habit that had developed over the years which prevented me from catching sight of the ugly, puckered scars that line my left leg, from calf to mid-thigh.

Not looking didn't stop the usual ache my leg gave me, though.

After pulling on my shoes, I carefully make my way downstairs, stealing a piece of toast from the kitchens and ambling my way outside to the garages, munching on my said piece of toast peacefully. When I spot my sleek, black motorbike from behind Beau's newest BMW, I quickly pull the protective cover off of its body, fasten my helmet and kick the machine into drive.

I speed my way along the narrow Tuscan roads, surrounded by the scent of pine, ripe olives and fresh air. I always feel a sense of elation when I ride my motorbike – a borrowed sense of freedom. Here, on this empty road, I am not the rich son of the famous Balthar _Mellarco –_ a name that is not even our own. No, amongst the dense vegetation, I am just _Peeta. _No masks, no fake courtships, no withdrawn father and no uncaring mother. There is no pretence here, nothing that is contaminated by the disguised curse of exuberant amounts of money. Here, there are no disguises.

It is just the passing Tuscan landscape, my bike and my lonely heart.

Taking the back route through the forest, I arrive later than planned. The town is abuzz with locals and tourists alike. Old men line the coffee bars, happily smoking their pipes and sipping their black espressos. They chat with one another, passing the hours debating whether or not the Italian president is helping their country. They recount tales from their mischievous youthful days – the time they spied on the group of girls who bathed by the pond.

As I pass them, they call out to me, gesturing to join them. Shaking my head, I laugh a little. _Signor Chiara Monte _is a lively man in his early eighties who hated the previous Italian president: _Presidente Silvio Berlusconi. _His flamboyant walking cane that featured a handle shaped into the shape of a hawk; poked out from underneath the wrought iron outdoor table he sat by.

"Ecco! É il nostro preferito Americano!" His friend, a balding man with eyes the colour of dark chocolate, cried from his position next to Signor Chiara Monte. They enjoyed teasing me about my American heritage, calling me their 'favourite' American that they have ever met. I know they meant no harm – if anything, it was just an ongoing compliment towards my ability to quickly adjust to the Tuscan way of life.

I chuckled in response as I reached them, shaking both of their hands. "Signor Chiara Monte, Signor Caccamo," I paused, gazing up at the sky with my hands behind my back, "Che bella giornata, no?"

Signor clucked his tongue at me, shaking his head fondly. "Oh, smettila di cambiare argomento. Hai incontrato una ragazza carina ancora?" His voice was low and gruff, the voice of a man that had been smoking since he was thirteen, but his eyes twinkled behind the thick glasses he wore.

They always asked me this question, whether I had found a 'nice girl' to call my own. It's funny; these Tuscan locals are able to see past my masks and into my acute loneliness of heart. My own parents, as indifferent as they are, couldn't do that if they even tried.

Then again, the Tuscans are very perceptive…

I sigh, shrugging. "No, I haven't met her yet."

Signor Caccamo reaches out and pats my back. "You meet her soon." The man's broken and heavily accented English make me smile. Usually, the elderly locals don't even bother trying to speak English in order to help out any tourists. The fact that he tried wasn't lost on me, and I am grateful for it.

I shrug once more, a small smile on my lips. Bidding them goodbye, I suddenly decide that I would divert from my original path – something that I've never done before. It was a strange feeling, almost like a person had tied a rope around my torso and was tugging at it, forcing me to follow them. I let my body guide me, lost in a strange sense of anticipation. I realise that the dull throb in my left leg has suddenly abated, fading away until nothing but the memory of aching pain is left.

What the hell am I anxious about? Why did my blood rush through my veins, pounding within my head? Why did my fingers begin to shake like they did in those seconds before I sat my final exams? I pass numerous narrow _vias – _main streets and secluded ones alike, where every building was lined with flowers or ivy– until trees begin to fill my vision.

Realising that I had suddenly stopped, I find myself standing before a stone wall that overlooks the panoramic view of a sunflower field.

I must've travelled south, away from the centre that is filled with restaurants, architectural attractions and little boutiques. The pull I had felt so strongly suddenly left me, leaving me extremely confused. As soon as I reached this wall, it stopped – but there was nothing _here. _

Apart from a lovely view, I suppose.

I slowly spin around, trying to find something of significance – something worthy of attention. Still, there is nothing but a stupid wall, the pebbled road and a parked yellow Vespa near one of the local's home. Sighing heavily, I spin on my heel, ambling my way around a narrow corner and not really looking where I was going.

_SMACK!_

I suddenly find myself grappling thin air as I fall onto my backside, pain shooting up my left leg once more. Grunting softly, my jaw tightens against the stabbing pain. Opening my eyes, I expect to find some cocky, teenage local. What I discover is something else entirely.

The teenager who I thought had banged into me is actually a girl, seemingly around the same age as me. Perhaps a little younger. Awkwardly trying to push herself into a sitting position, I distantly realise that her big black sunglasses had bounced a few metres away from our position on the pebbled street floor.

The girl's pale skin seems to almost glow under the Tuscan sun. Her small, lithe body is covered by light blue jeans and a simple grey and moss-green t-shirt, the subtle curve of her breasts visible in her crouched position. I gulp, beads of sweat creating dampness along my palms.

White _Converse_ protect her small feet. Her dark brown hair is messily braided into a rope that hangs in front of her left shoulder. A few stubborn strands refuse to be part of the larger braid, instead choosing to softly frame her face.

_Oh, and what a beautiful face…_

Freckles sprinkle across the bridge of her straight nose and her high cheekbones. The bow of her rose-coloured upper lip is sharp, defined – _'an angel's bow', _Nonna Ally would describe it as – while her lower lip is plump and wonderfully out of proportion. A lip that you would spend hours nibbling, sucking, biting…

Finally reaching her eyes, I feel like my heart miss a beat.

Long, dark, mascara-free lashes frame two of the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. Her eyes are the colour of storm clouds, the colour of titanium – a grey so vibrant, so beautiful and so strangely terrifying, it feels like she is an angel who had pierced my soul with one of her spirit-laced arrows.

For once in my life, I find myself speechless.

She stares at me for a few seconds, shocked, before quickly averting her gaze to the ground. An awkward pause stretches between us as I continue to stare at her, enthralled.

"I'm so - _mi dispiace_." She speaks suddenly, voice husky. She searches my face for a few seconds before scrambling to her feet, hurriedly picking up all of the items that had fallen out of her little backpack. Dazed, I catch sight of the single pamphlet she had in her possession, bookmarked on the page that features the _Palazzo Piccolomini. _

"It was built in 1459 by this famous architect called Bernardo Rossellino." I blurt out stupidly.

Oh, _fuck._ Did I really just say that? My face reddens.

The mysterious girl freezes, blinking slowly. Her soft lips form an almost comical 'o', before she self-consciously runs her tongue across her bottom lip.

I almost groan aloud.

"You can speak English?" She questions softly, fidgeting with her braid.

I nod, swallowing audibly. I slowly push myself up, noticing her beginning to stretch out her hand to help, but ultimately deciding not to when she realises I am using the wall as support. I mentally curse my stupid, fucked up leg – wishing I could do normal things like ride a bicycle without wobbling like a seven year old.

Glancing in her direction, I realise that she isn't staring at my leg at all. Most people would make a comment about it, ask if I was alright or something along those lines. She just fidgets awkwardly in front of me, seeming both nervous yet standoffish.

"Yeah, I can." I break the silence, pausing to gesture towards the pamphlet she holds in her hands. "You're a mile off." I offer, scratching the back of my neck nervously.

Nervously? When the hell do I get nervous around _girls? _I've danced with singing sensations, had dinner with models, and gone skiing with rising actresses! Why the hell was I feeling _nervous _around some girl?

"Sorry?" Her quiet, even voice interrupts my internal meltdown.

"_Palazzo Piccolomini. _It's down that way." I point behind her, cataloguing the slight reddening of her cheeks.

She nods slowly, staring anywhere but at me. "Right." She says, tone gruff. "Thanks." The girl adds after a pause. Shooting me an indefinable look, she slowly begins to make her way in the opposite direction. Something pulls at me, however – to follow her. To say something. _Anything. _

"I'm Sebastian." I blurt out once again without thinking. _I'm Sebastian? Sebastian _out of all names? Why didn't I just say: '_Hi, I'm Peeta.' _It's nice, simple and _honest. _

I groan inwardly. The truth is…I don't want to be _Peeta Mellarco _right now. I don't want to risk the chance of realising that this girl is just another 'huge fan' of mine who places me on raised pedestal, ignoring my obvious faults and flaws all for the sake of my fame, fortune and popularity. I want someone who I could act silly with, someone who I could trust, someone who would love me even if I lost every cent I ever owned. I want someone who wouldn't cringe when they saw my ugly, misshapen naked leg – someone who wouldn't encourage me to look into surgery to help the appearance of my scars…

Damn, I'm turning into a figurative bag of raging emotions.

The girl pauses mid step, slowly turning to around to face me again. She seems to be weighing something in her head, her expression hesitant. Then, she finally speaks.

"I'm Katniss."

Her lack of words made me crave them even more.

"What part of America are you from, Katniss?" I loved the way her name rolled off the top of my tongue. _Katniss. _

_Katniss. Katniss. Katniss. _

"Excuse me?" She replies, voice sharp. I must be acting a little too forward for her liking.

"Oh, it's just…your accent. I haven't heard it before…" I trail off, face stupidly heating up.

"Oh," she whispers, expression reeling. "I…uh – I'm from northern California." She pauses, twisting her fingers. "There's small town on the very fringe of the redwood forest called Twelve Oaks…I've lived there since I was young." Katniss explains.

Silence once again stretches between us and I desperately rake my mind to find a way to breach it.

_She must think I'm some creep. Some Italian creep. Some Italian stalker creep who can somehow speak fluent English, despite my slight accent. Oh, but she's so lovely – how can someone so plain be so beautiful? How do I find myself attracted to a quiet, standoffish girl who hasn't even smiled at me once! Why am I –_

My mental break down _number two, _as well as the silence, is suddenly broken by her low voice.

"I'm…lost." She offers. Seeming shocked by her admission, Katniss clenches her jaw tightly, glancing away from my general direction.

I feel the swift urge to take her chin in my large hands and stroke her lips until they pull into a small smile. _Oh, what I wouldn't give to see her smile at me…_

Ok, that's enough.

"I can help you with that!" I respond a little too enthusiastically for my own tastes. The fractional quirk of the corner of Katniss's lip, however, was is compensation to last me while.

When the little quirk of her lips turns into a full-blown, rueful smile, I almost die.

I'm not joking.

Oh, this is pathetic.

Carefully handing me the pamphlet she held between her hands, careful so that our fingers don't touch, she points to a photo.

"I've been told that it's beautiful, but all the streets kind of look the same." Being in closer distance to Katniss, I can smell the scent that clings to her clothing – fresh pine needles, lemon and something else…something that makes my mouth water. I prevent myself from inhaling the delicious scent.

"It must be fate that we met – I know these streets like the back of my hand." I reply jokingly. Something I said, however, seems to have affected her. For a few seconds, she stares directly into my eyes and I have never before felt so naked…so _vulnerable. _

"Perhaps it was, Sebastian." She says softly, expression unreadable.

At the mention of the fake name I adopted, something feels like it is stabbing at my chest – long, painful stabs of regret. Ignoring it, I opt to grin at her, gesturing forward.

"Onward, my lady!" I declare dramatically. She snorts in response, before taking the lead.

Following her with my eyes, I mentally groan.

I am stuffed. Completely done for. I have just met this girl, and yet, something within me cries out for her. What's more ironic is the fact that she seems completely indifferent. What's perhaps even more ironic that the previous statement is the fact that _Palazzo Piccolomini, _the palace we are traveling to, is the fact it was used by _Franco Zeffirelli_ for filming some scenes of his re-enactment of _Romeo and Juliet_. Specifically, it was used for the scene where the two lovers meet for the first time during the masquerade ball.

"_Merda."_ I mutter under my breath before chasing after the girl with the braid who seems to have captured my heart and soul in one fell swoop.

Ok, perhaps I won't go _that _far…

**To be continued...**

* * *

**Translations: **

"Chissà che tipo di cose pericolose potrebbe essere nel tuo stomaco in questo momento!": _Who knows what types of dangerous things could be in your stomach right now!_

Ho fame:_ I'm hungry_

Malato: _sick_

Che bella giornata, no?: _What a lovely day, no?_

"Oh, smettila di cambiare argomento. Hai incontrato una ragazza bella ancora?": _Oh, stop changing the subject. Have you met a nice girl yet?_

Dente di Leone:_ Dandelion_

__

Ah, so Katniss and Peeta have finally met. Emphasis on the _finally. _

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And as always, I would love to hear your thoughts! **__


	6. Chapter 6

Ok, apologies for the delay!

I am aiming to respond to everyone's wonderful review through the inbox system, but I would like to thank the following group of people for their beautiful reviews:

Pseudonym808, prettyfields16, missmellarco (I love your username (; ), Ninnalop, Tulipes, GryffindorNay, VanillaSnowflake, Kiwi, Lgwater27, tabbycatbw, peeeta-bread, kismet4891, JK38, that1persona, harbormiss, guests of every kind, mrssherrange, Heidznseek, Abm550, NurseKelly, Thundarrgirl, awkward lettuce, Scoutchick104, Ripe, xxPeetaBreadxxx, Crazydreamz, Aimeehart and Dolly (I'm so sorry if I've missed out on anyone!)

I love you all oh so very much!

* * *

**Katniss POV**

A short man with a thick, curly mustache stands facing the small group of people, gesturing towards the extravagant entrance of a large hallway. Although I have no idea what he is saying, I enjoy the fluidity of his voice – the lack of harsh consonants that are the backbone of the English language. It almost feels as if I'm listening to a song.

Suddenly, I feel someone carefully lean into me – _Sebastian_. I refuse to look his way, instead opting to stare at the tour guide who I can't seem to focus on anymore. I feel the handsome man's warm, sweet breath on the side of my neck, near my left ear. My palms dampen, so I shove them into my pockets.

Sebastian's deep, melodious voice fills the cavities of my ears. "He is describing how the palace dominates the west side of the trapezoidal piazza. The back of the palace, to the south, is…" He pauses, searching for the right words. "…_defined_ by loggia on all three floors."

We're standing right at the back of the little group of tourists, slightly in shadow of a large statue of a half-naked man wielding a large sword. With his body so close to mine, I can smell Sebastian's subtle scent of cinnamon and clove. A strange fragrance for a man such as him - almost as if he spends his day in a bakery rather than in town. I quickly glance at him out of the corner of my eye and feel the crease between my eyebrows form once more. His glacial coloured irises are currently focused once more on the tour guide. Long, Icy-blonde lashes that would make any girl envious frame his eyes, matching the colour of the soft, wavy curls that cover his scalp. His posture is relaxed yet poised, chest gently expanding and contracting with every breath he takes. He rests his weight on his right side – barely detectable from afar, but more pronounced from my position right next to him. Trailing my gaze up to his soft, plump lips, I feel myself blush.

Still, I continue to stare.

"They…_overlook_ an enclosed Renaissance garden and beautiful views into the distant Val d'Orcia landscape." He continues, lips quirking as he discovers my staring. I jerk my face forward, embarrassment now making it difficult to enjoy the liquidity of the guide's voice.

A small part of me regrets agreeing to allow this man-boy to show me around the little town of Pienza. Apart from the fact that he can speak English despite his slight accent and his seemingly local status due to his profound knowledge of almost every street…I know nothing about him.

_Well, does the fact that he is devastatingly handsome make up for it? _

I mentally slap myself for that thought.

The group begins shuffling towards another hallway. As I move to follow, Sebastian grips my forearm, tugging me in the opposite direction. I stagger to the left. "Hey, what are you-"

"I want to show you something." He interjects, throwing me a grin over his shoulder. Part of me – a _very _small part of me – melts into a puddle on the marble floor right then and there due to that grin, so full of mischief. The rest of me is put on edge. My scowl intensifies.

"I don't think you can just '_show me something' _unless you have permission." I snap, pulling my arm out of his grasp. He stares at me, frowning for a moment. Then, suddenly, he yells out something that sounds like a name.

I groan, horror colouring my features. "Are you _crazy?" _

He ignores me, instead choosing to smile as another voice responds to his call. The short, plump tour guide appears from the narrow hallway, a questioning expression painted across his face.

"Signor Buscemi, posso portare _Katniss_ alla sala da ballo?" I glare at Sebastian when I hear my name riddled within the sentence. _What is he saying? _The tour guide spares a quick glance at me. A large knowing grin stretching across his lips. "Hai finalmente trovato una ragazza simpatica?"

Sebastian responds by shrugging, a mysterious smile painted across his lips. "Può darsi."

I'm really getting sick of not being able to understand a single word of what they're saying. A small huff escapes from my lips.

Sebastian chuckles. "I asked him if it was ok, and he said yes." He shoots me a satisfied smirk. "_There. _You won't get into any trouble now, worry-wart." With a quick wave in the tour guide's direction, he begins dragging me in the opposite direction.

He may be…_cute…_but that doesn't mean he's right.

"I'm not worried about getting into trouble." I bristle, adding "-and I'm not a worry-wart, Mr I-can-mysteriously-switch-between-two-languages-fluently."

He purses his lips, fighting a smile, which aggravates me even more. He doesn't respond, however, and nor do I lose the battle by breaking the silence. For five minutes, neither one of us speaks. Rays of light filter through the large, opulent glass windows as he navigates his way through a series of corridors. In the silence, I grow conscious of Sebastian's large, warm hand around mine, and it takes me a moment to realise I am panicking. I haven't had a member of the male sex willingly _touch _me for an extended duration of time in _years_ – and Gale doesn't count. A red flush blossoms across my face, I feel droplets of perspiration trailing down my neck, my hands become clammy. I desperately want to rip my hand out of his grip, or better yet, rip my hand out of his grip and then _run away. _

_Girls aren't supposed to have calloused hands – let alone sweaty, calloused hands! _

_Ugh, get it together Everdeen, _I think to myself. Another five minutes of silence pass and I reach the point where my strange sense of nervousness begins to distort my will to win the stupid silent battle we have going on between us.

"If you're planning to entrap me in some medieval Italian torture device, I think I'd much prefer visiting the gardens you were talking about before." I snap before trailing off, voice echoing within the large ballroom I suddenly find myself in. Romantic mosaics cover the walls, forcing an occupant's eyes to trail up to the high, domed ceiling. The marble floor is sleek and cool – so clean and well preserved that you can see your own reflection in each marble slab. Large, marble pillars, the same colour as the flooring, form a circle right in the middle of the ballroom – presumably the official dance floor. I trail my fingers gently across the closest wall, feeling its bumpy, slightly jagged texture. I find it difficult to string a sentence together…well, more so than usual.

Entranced, I move towards the centre of the room, feeling the warmth from the rays of light bathe down upon me. I can see the sun shining through the panel of windows that make up the domed ceiling. I could almost hear the soft lilting of a harp or the fluttery melody of a harmony of flutes.

Suddenly, a voice sounds from behind me, making me freeze.

"_She doth teach the torches to burn bright!_

_It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night as a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear. _

_Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear." _

Blinded by the beauty, I must have not heard his footsteps until he was right behind me. He radiates warmth, something that my betraying body suddenly yearns for. I whirl to face him, only to have him capture my right hand in his. His eyes – the colour of ice – stare right into mine. His lips quirk fractionally despite his intense gaze as he presses his lips to my knuckles.

"_If I profane with my unworthiness hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this. _

_My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth the rough touch with a gentle a kiss…" _He whispers. I stare at him, eyes wide. I feel like I can't breathe. My thoughts jumble into a huge, metaphorical knot.

_He's just some guy, Katniss. _

Yeah, he's just some guy. Some guy who switches fluently between English and Italian, both of which make me feel all nervous and jittery. Some guy who seems intent on making me laugh almost all of the time. Some guy who I haven't yet caught trying to sneak a feel like Madge always says handsome guys do. Some guy who doesn't seem to mind my sweaty hands.

_Some guy who could recite Shakespeare. _

I've never been a huge fan ofI've only ever watched the original colour re-enactment of _Romeo and Juliet _once – and only because Prim forced me to on one rainy, desolate Sunday afternoon a few years ago. She was in year eight and studying Shakespeare's most well-known play. Like the majority of the female population, Prim had fallen in love with Romeo Montague's character. For her birthday, dad had bought Prim nearly every version of the story on DVD. Sadly, this left me to be the one she watched them with. Well, more like _she _watched them while I sat next to her and ate all of the popcorn…or fell asleep fifteen minutes into each film…

I do remember, however, watching the famous masquerade 'meeting scene' in Franco Zefferelli's version. Prim had fallen asleep on my lap as I absentmindedly ran my fingers through her long blonde hair that was as soft as the fluff that coated baby ducklings. I myself was close to completely conking out, but the melodious tune of an age-old song woke me from my sleepy state. I remember blinking wearily as Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting – apparently also known as the 'original Romeo and Juliet' – stood on opposite sides on the ballroom. Romeo, entranced by a dancing Juliet, recited the well-known lines of the play:

"'_Did my heart love till now?_

_Forswear it, sight! _

_For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.'" _

The room that the scene was filmed in was richly lit, heightening the beautiful hue of sunset orange that seemed to dominate the frame. Romeo sighed softly, hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar as he quickly gave his heart away to the mysterious girl in the orange gown…

A soft gasp escapes my unwilling lips. I quickly spin around to face him, my eyes trailing across his knowing expression. I find myself documenting the delicious quirk of his full lips, the muted flame flickering behind his glacial-coloured eyes.

It would have to be the single most romantic experience in my life, but, of course, I am Katniss Everdeen. I have not mastered the art of flirting – in fact, a thirteen year old boy probably possesses more skill than I in that department. Romance involving others usually makes me queasy. Romance involving _myself, _I have now discovered, is a little more complicated. How is it possible that I want to both sprint to the closest and melt onto the floor in a pile of baby-pink goo – caricature hearts and all?

I don't like the way Sebastian is making me feel. I don't like the way that I suddenly want to run my fingers through his blonde waves. And I especially don't like the fact that I feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that he is staring at _me_ with those piercing eyes and not some other girl.

"If you're trying to seduce me by bringing me to the ballroom where Romeo and Juliet meet for the first time, I think I much prefer the medieval Italian torture devices instead." My voice betrays me. The slight waver at the end of my sentence prevents it from sounding as venomous as I initially wanted. Sebastian blinks once before he throws his head back and laughs the beautiful baritone of his voice bouncing off the sleek marble walls.

I freeze, eyes narrowing at the man in front of me. He continues to laugh, holding his stomach as if in pain. "I wish I knew more girls like you!" He manages to wheeze out before succumbing to his laughter once more.

I stare at him for a few seconds, confused. "What?" I mutter gruffly, crossing my arms across my chest. Sebastian takes a few deep breaths before shooting me a boyish grin.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're brilliantly funny?" He shakes his head in wonder, before continuing. "How can you be beautiful, intelligent, down-to-earth _and _funny – I don't even know…" He trails off. His comment is so matter of fact, not at all flamboyant or overdone. His tone catches me off guard and he does not grant me a chance to respond in any fashion.

He grins once more, a slight blush tinging his cheeks, before he gently grabs my arm and hurriedly leads me towards the exit. "Seeing as my master-seducing plan did not work, I guess I have to go with plan _B. _Ice-cream it is, my fair lady!"

_My thoughts when in the presence of Sebastian: jdsnjdsfbjsbjbjiabjaSNIOASH8 9qbnionjasdjsjdsfjsdjidsbaij iasodhhruiwuifeiusfbds_

_My words and control of motor-skills when in the presence of Sebastian:_

I find myself willingly being led by the handsome man, my mind stuck in a haze of confusion, nervousness and excitement. As he slowly but surely drags some semblance of conversation out of me, I realise that I'm actually having…_fun. _

I hear the crack of cement before I realise that the walls I have surrounded myself with for the past few months are being breached by an unknown foreigner. Sirens begin to sound within my mind, warning me of the presence of an enemy – _Sebastian. _Something so deep within me cries out to me, willing me to unleash my ruthless counterattack on him. To cut him down before he cuts me. Sebastian - with his boyish grin, his piercing eyes, his melodious voice, his large, soft hands – _is _the enemy. It is he who stands at the foot of my wall, gently forcing his way past my defenses.

I ignore the angry, worried shouts of my internal defenses I do not unleash a shower of arrows on him like they urge me to, and nor do I allow my solders to cut him down. Instead, I wait. I watch as he slowly begins to pick his way through each and every brick.

With every minute that ticks past, his nails grow bloodier – sweat begins to drip into his eyes as his work grows more laborious.

Still, he smiles up at me.

And from my height, I let him.

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_"Signor Buscemi, posso portare Katniss alla sala da ballo?"_: Mr Buscemi, may I take Katniss to the ballroom?

* * *

**Thankyou, my lovely readers! I hope you enjoy this chapter, despite the delay...**

**P.S: Who is excited for the _Mortal Instruments_ film that is coming out soon? Be****cause I am seriously so close to sobbing each time I watch the trailer...**

**xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Peeta POV:**

Katniss glances down at my left leg and then back to the motorbike, her eyebrow furrowed in apprehension. "A motorbike?"

She must have picked up on my obvious limp. I shrug, a little uncomfortable. "Surprised?"

She trails her gaze resolutely down my leg, not even trying to hide it. I feel like squirming.

"Well, yes," she admits after a while, voice flat.

I laugh despite myself. Her response shocks me, which really, in retrospect…_shouldn't._ Since I've met her but a few hours ago, Katniss has shocked me. She's abrupt and snappy. Everything that comes out of her mouth defies the accepted conventions of social interaction. She's not like the girls that I usually associate with; blemish-free, poised, elegant, upbeat. She does not excel in the art of friendly chit-chat. Instead, Katniss is blunt and darkly witty. Her responses are quick and fiery, her reactions…unexpected. And yet, underneath it all, there's an undeniable – almost _uncomfortable_ – sense of sadness. Of anger. Of fragility. To be perfectly honest… it intimidates me. _She _intimidates me. She makes me want to cringe away and just forget I ever met her. She brings up a long-repressed sense of desolation within my own self. She reminds me a little of how I used to be – something that I desperately have to remind myself is in the past, and thus, will _stay _in the past. She is awkward and abrupt and perhaps even a little dislikeable… but at the same time, there's just _something _about her. Something that made me act like some stupid, moronic fool my mother insists I become. The only piece of advice she ever really gave me was to _'find a rich girl, woo her with trinkets and fancy dinners and then marry her before her father realises that there are better fish in the sea.' _

I've personally always opted to simply let the spotlight shine on my brothers. They are the handsome ones, the boys who the female population went crazy for. I am just the youngest Mellarco brother who is known for his baking talent and injured leg. Sure, I've dated a few times…all of which have been ultimately quite disastrous. I guess you could say I'm weak. I fall for some of the beautiful girls my mother pushes my way. Their happy, friendly chatter pull me in. Their perfectly shaped bodies entice me. Their heavy-lidded eyes ignite a feverish excitement within me – but most of all; it is the faux comfort they give me that makes them irresistible. Of course, I always remind myself that it is not real – their secret smiles and casual touches – it's all an act. A _transaction. _By marrying into my family, they are promised a life of luxury and fame. In turn, the Mellarco Empire spreads and grows. Through our marriages and 'friendships', the Mellarco name is connected to some of the most powerful people in the world.

Katniss's voice shakes me out of my reverie. "So can you drive or not?"

I blink, shaking my head as if to clear my thoughts. "Pardon?"

"You said you had somewhere you wanted to show me." She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, readjusting her little backpack in order to take the pressure of her spine.

I frown, scratching the back of my neck awkwardly. "We can walk if you prefer."

She ignores me, instead choosing to move closer to the motorbike. Her fingers tap impatiently against the leather seat.

I cock an eyebrow. "You seemed kind of nervous to ride with me just a few seconds ago." What was supposed to sound light and offhand turned into something that oozed bitterness. I hate the fact that I let my leg put a negative spin on everything. I can't even _pretend _that it doesn't bother me. Well, at least not with Katniss.

She glares at me. "I was surprised – and you can't really blame me." She gestures to my leg, face neutral. "What happened, anyway? To your leg, I mean…" A faint pinkish hue creeps into her cheeks as her eyes widen. She scrambles for words. "I – don't – _you _don't have to answer that. I apologise for prying." She fiddles again with her braid, looking anyway but at me.

Ice spreads across my skin. A cold yet familiar dread settles deep within my stomach. My hands grow moist. My response is automatic. _Rehearsed._ "Car accident. I was sixteen when a drunk driver tried to overtake my mother. The road was wet so the driver lost control, forcing us to swerve into an oak tree." I shrug, remembering to act casual. "I was bed ridden for almost a month and a half – a terrible affair for someone as young and restless as I was."

Katniss frowns, ignoring my attempt at humour. "A car accident?"

Her response puts me on edge. Usually, people just respond with a sympathetic '_I'm sorry' _and change the subject to something more light-hearted. It's easier that way – for both of us. Katniss's scepticism is dangerous.

"Yes. A car accident." I say, voice strong and laced with a sense of finality. Unable to read the flash of some foreign emotion within her eyes, I straddle the motorbike and turn the key, making the engine sing. "Are you coming or not?"

Katniss grumbles something under her breath before sidling in behind me, her warm breath making the hairs of my neck stand on edge. I experience an irrational sense of excitement as I wait for her arms to creep their way around my torso.

Thirty seconds pass. I clear my throat.

"Ah…Katniss? You need to hold on or else you will fall off." Luckily she cannot see my cheeks burn. After a moment's pause, I feel her arms hesitantly wrap around me. The light breeze makes the loose strands of hair framing her face tickle the back of my neck.

"I'll admit that I'm not too fond of motorbikes, Sebastian. If you make me fall, I swear I will -"

_My name is not Sebastian. _

Before she can finish, I hit the accelerator. We shoot forward at an almost terrifying speed and I guiltily revel in the feeling of Katniss flattening her small, soft body against mine.

She stares at the tiny bar in front of her, one eyebrow cocked. The sky had turned a vibrant shade of sand-burnt orange, and rich shades of pomegranate pink began to peek through with the low, setting sun. Tourists and locals milled throughout the village, beginning to fill the seats within the numerous restaurants that riddled the stone laneways. A warm, gentle breeze filled the air, lifting loose strands of Katniss's hair and blowing her crisp, earthy scent towards me.

"This is it?"

Her eyebrows meet in the middle as she frowns, matching her sardonic tone. I raise my eyebrows, grinning. "I told you to keep an open mind." A thrilling shiver races its way down my spine as I place my hand on her lower back, gently pushing her forwards and into the tiny bar.

She cocks an eyebrow at me and I make no comment on her light blush that tinges her cheeks even though I desperately _want _to.

_Does she feel that same spark as I do? Or is it just the heat of the night? _

"A seedy looking ice-cream bar?" She insists, before muttering something along the lines of '_how can an ice-cream bar even be seedy?' _I shoot her a superior look. "The beauty is in the eye of the beholder, _signorina._"

"That doesn't even make sense in context."

"Yes, it does."

"And don't try to distract me by including Italian phrases. It's not working."

I grin at her before I spot Alessandro – the owner of the bar – serving a local couple. As soon as he notices me, he raises a hand in greeting. He stops, however as soon as he realises I have a… _friend…_with me. His smile turns into a knowing smirk.

"_Ah, Pe_-" His voice booms throughout the crowded bar, but before he can complete my name; I shake my head frantically, mouthing the word _NO. _

Katniss turns around to stare at me, face crunched in apprehension. "Um, Sebastian? Are you…alright?" My voice comes out half strangled as I respond with an affirmative. I rub my neck in agitation.

Katniss continues to stare at me. "Well…if you're sure…"

I nod quickly. Changing the subject, I gesture towards the ice-cream. "This place has the best gelato in the whole of Tuscany – if not in the whole of Italy," I speak quickly but she doesn't seem to notice. "Come on, let's go choose our flavours."

Katniss smiles slightly, shrugging. "I need to use the bathroom. Would you mind getting one for me? I don't mind which flavour – I'll eat anything."

In my food-orientated world, giving one's trust over in regards to food is not a light topic. My father has always held the relationship between the head chef and his or her assistant in high regard. He believed that 'culinary alchemy' could only ever be achieved when the two worked in unison. According to my father, their relationship is strangely similar to that of a warrior's brotherhood. When two warriors decide to swear an oath to forever protect one another, they reach a point where they can understand one another without words or verbal cues. A simple tilt of the head or a certain type of glance is all that is needed. Their connection is one of deep understanding and respect. Of course, I had always thought that my father's analogy was a little exaggerated- well, that was up until I met Finnick Odair. That boy is much more than just my assistant chef to me – he is like a brother of blood. There were even times in my life that I wished he was my brother instead of Beau. Finnick…_gets _me. Well, I believe that's how the Americans phrase it, at least. In my world, trust can be forged through food. Katniss doesn't know this, I am sure of it. At the same time, however, it still makes me want to grin like a maniac.

* * *

**Katniss POV**

I quickly smooth down my top before exiting the cramped bathroom. Nervous shivers race down my spine – some of them taking the closest exit to my stomach. I am on a sort-of date with a handsome man. Not that one's appearance really truly matters to me, but still…_congratulations on your face, Sebastian. _Entering the fray of cramped bodies, I try to locate his signature ice-blonde hair. Suddenly, I hear my name being called out. I spin around, trying to locate the source before a large hand encircles my forearm.

"Katniss?" A deep, melodic voice questions.

My eyes move from the man's sun-golden skin to his strangely golden eyes before I smile in relief.

"_Cinna." _

He grins, gesturing to our surroundings. "How on earth did you find your way in here, _Cara? _I was searching for you after lunch only to discover that you left without me!" He sighs dramatically. "And here I thought that we were friends…"

I huff, scowling slightly to hide my grin. "If you must know, I was out trying to find a florist where I could buy you some flowers as a small thank you."

Cinna's expression suddenly turns serious, but the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes assures me that he is only playing. "Which type of flower were you thinking of buying?"

"Lilies. To suit your white colour scheme."

"Lilies are commonly used in funerals. I suggest you refrain from buying flowers as thank you gifts." He can't hold back his grin now, nor the strange glitter within his eyes. "Thank you for the thought, Katniss. It was very sweet of you all the same." I shrug, suddenly feeling uncomfortable due to his warm and fond tone.

"I didn't buy them in the end. I got…_caught up." _I can't hide the reddening of my cheeks at that moment. I don't even bother trying to hide it from Cinna. It seems as if that man can read me like a book.

He shoots me a sly look, slowly glancing around the bar. His eyes glide over the semi-large group of handsome English tourists in the corner before they return back to me. He raises his eyebrows suggestively, somehow still appearing elegant and refined all the same.

"And what, or rather, _who _did you get caught up with, _signorina _Everdeen?"

I can feel my cheeks burning. My palms grow clammy. I grit my teeth. "I was walking without looking where I was going and I bumped into someone and that someone happened to be a very nice man who is named Sebastian." My words quickly rush out of my mouth due to embarrassment.

Cinna smiles slightly, obviously playing it cool. I wouldn't be surprised if he was mentally squealing like a fangirl…or _Prim. _Not that Cinna would ever squeal or act like a fangirl.

"And you've spent the _whole _day with this Sebastian?"

My scowl deepens. "Yes, _dad." _I huff. "It's no big deal. He's nice and he's currently buying me ice-cream." I stand on my tiptoes, attempting to spot the man in question – sadly to no avail.

"Sebastian, you say? Is he a local?"

I nod quickly. "Apparently so." In the corner of my eye, I see Cinna's brow crease with confusion.

"Do you know his last name by any chance?"

I pause in my search, biting my lip. "Umm…" Well, _no I don't. _"I'm sure he told me. I've heard so many names today – I must've forgotten."

Cinna glances at me questioningly. His mouth opens as he prepares to respond, but before that can happen, he seems to pale. He glances away from me, directing his gaze to the line of attractive English boys once more. I think I hear him mutter something along the lines of _"_Oh Lord, please not_ that _Sebastian…"

"What-"

Cinna cuts me off, pulling me towards the crowd. "Doesn't matter. Come on; let's go find this mysterious man."

I allow him to pull me through the fray. Conversation flows around us and the dusky natural lighting is only disturbed by the flare of several candles strategically placed around the bar. I suddenly feel an irrational spike of fear. What happens if he quickly made a run for it? Maybe I was too boring – too cold and prickly – for someone like…_him. _What was I even think-

"Katniss?"

The familiar voice pulls me from my irrational internal meltdown. I glance up to see him holding two large waffle cones filled with _gelato _in both of his hands, a boyish smile lighting up his masculine face. I feel my heart flutter.

"Sebastian! Sorry I've taken so long, I got-"

"Peeta! Come stai?"

"Peeta?" I glance towards Cinna, confusion painted across my face.

"_Cinna?" _Sebastian's face pales. The ice-cream cones slip from his fingers.

I jerk towards Sebastian who is staring at me in horror. My heart starts to beat through my ears. "Sebastian, what is he-"

Oh.

_Oh. _

"Oh…" I whisper.

Cinna gestures between us. "Do you both, ah…_know _each other?"

I stare at him, willing the bitter, stinging tears of frustration to stop burning my throat. _Katniss Everdeen; not understanding male species' motives since 1990. _I manage bark out a laugh. "Apparently not. You see, I was under the impression that I spent the day with someone by the name of _Sebastian." _I grit my teeth as I stretch my lips into a sickly sweet smile. I move towards _Peeta _and thrust out my hand. Cinna stands back, watching us with cautious eyes.

"I guess we haven't officially met, then. My name is Katniss Everdeen, and you are…?"

_Peeta _glances at Cinna hopelessly before his expression morphs into one of apology. "Katniss, I'm sorry. I just didn't want -"

His response pisses me off. He pisses me off. In fact, _everything _right now pisses me off.

I explode.

"Of course, being some huge, famous celebrity grants you certain rights and privileges, doesn't it _Peeta? _And, of course, your leg means that you constantly hosting a pity party for yourself. Anything you do wrong is overlooked because of your leg!You can _lie _to people over something as simple as your _name _just because you possess some sort of heightened position above 'normal' people!"

Am I being irrational? Probably. Most likely. Perhaps I'm hitting the 73 percentage mark in the scale of irrationality. But I don't care. I don't _care. _For some stupid, illogical reason, I was beginning to think that Seba-_ Peeta _was someone I could…

Someone that I could…

Someone that I could _what? _Trust? Like? Connect with?

_Love? _

Cinna places a gentle hand on my shoulder, murmuring my name softly. I shake him off without taking my eyes off of Peeta.

Peeta stares at me beseechingly. "Katniss, we had just only met! What did you expect me to do?"

"-Not lie!"

His sighs, exasperated. "I was omitting some truths!"

I ignore his response, balling my hands into fists at my sides. People were staring at us, but I could not care less. Let them look. "There I was, allowing myself to actually _believe _all of that shit that left your mouth – and for what? So that you could bag an 'easy lay'?"

His gaze hardens at my comment. "You are not the only one who has been used, Katniss! You don't know me and you don't understand my position. I do not have to justify my choices to you, and nor do you reserve the right to make me feel guilty to protecting myself!"

I feel like punching him. I _need _to punch him. I don't care about his celebrity status or his wealth or his fame. I don't care; I just need to _punch him. _

_Refrain from punching the stuck up, lying celebrity, Katniss, _I think to myself.

"And for the record, I did not see you as an 'easy lay.' If anything, trying to bed you was like trying to crawl through a rosebush several times."

Before I give myself the chance to think it through, my fist connects with his right eye and my knee veers into his stomach. Peeta falls like a pin and his strangled moan provides me with a strong, victorious sense of satisfaction. Cinna flinches but does not reprimand me in anyway – in fact, he seems fractionally smug. The room around us is completely silent.

I stare at the blonde headed boy-man kneeling on the floor, clutching his stomach. "Fuck you, Peeta," I declare in a low tone. He manages he bark out a rough laugh.

"That's not very…ladylike," he manages to gasp.

"I never claimed to be one."

I spare him one more look, committing his pained expression to my memory, before spinning and making my way towards the exit. As soon as my feet hit the cobbled stones, I begin to run. I hear Cinna calling out my name, but I ignore him. I ignore everything apart from the pounding of my feet, the throbbing of my knuckles and the burning in my legs.

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**AN: **I am _so _sorry that I haven't updated in so long! I hope you like this chapter all the same xx

Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

**I haven't had the chance to edit this chapter but I believe I have made you all wait long enough. I hope you enjoy it! **

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Bridgette Assini, the '_assistant project manager', _stands before us in her tight black pencil skirt, crisp white shirt and black patent stilettos. Her blonde hair is arranged in an elegant chignon. Her makeup is subtle yet perfect - but what else would you expect from a corporation such as Mellarco enterprises_…_company…_whatever. _

To be honest, I actually have no idea what the company as a whole is called – and nor do I really care. All I know is that it is owned by a rich, stuck up and superficial family who apparently mass-produces disgusting Lotharios to marry off to equally rich families, thus spreading the _Mellarco _legacy.

Oh, but I am mistaken! Forgive me, oh great romantic drama film Gods – _Peeta Mellarco_ is different! He is not a holier-than-thou, arrogant, unpleasant and generally obnoxious person. No, Peeta Mellarco is a holier-than-thou, arrogant, unpleasant and generally obnoxious person who is rich _and _has a woeful sob story.

Cue female swooning.

Poor Peeta. What a terrible, wretched life he must have to live – beautiful women constantly throwing themselves at him, a limitless credit card at his disposal, a huge mansion, endless career opportunities… Oh, for shame! How can I be so cruel towards a person who has _suffered _so much throughout his life? Every day must be a struggle for that man. It must be so difficult to be the _injured, _crippled son of the great Mellarco family. He must be an embarrassment to his family name. Of course, his limp is not some terrible cancer or blindness or deafness – but it affects his image which is even worse! His _limp_ must make it so difficult for him to pick up at nightclubs and bars. And it's not like he would milk his minor injury for all it's worth. Of course not. Peeta Mellarco is just not that sort of person. On top of his already woeful history, there's obviously some other sort of sob story stemming from his family. Any bets his mother in particular. Did she prevent him from dating his dream girl, thus creating a fiery ball of hatred and angst within him? Or maybe he is one of those stereotypical '_my mother never loved me so I am going to take it out on the world' _sort of men.

Either way, I wash my hands of him.

"Due to numbers, ladies and gentlemen," Assini continues, "participants must work in pairs throughout the course of the program. We have taken the liberty to create these groups. Due to time constraints, we will not be able to make any adjustments to these pairings." Obviously the '_assistant project manager' _could speak English, as well as Italian, French, Mandarin and Spanish.

I have a strange feeling that Assini is not in fact human. How can one person – let alone someone in _stilettos – _stand ramrod straight for an extended period of time? Posture and poise is one thing, but what she is doing doesn't seem natural. "When I call your name, please stand and make your way towards the training centre entrance."

Her words ignite a muted sense of panic within me and my stomach begins to churn. Despite how much I cursed Cinna three nights ago, as well as cursed _Peeta Mellarco _in front of Cinna – who I discovered was a _dear friend _of his – Cinna refrained from making any stand out comments. He explained how he had come to know the wonder boy, but told me little else. In fact, in retrospect, he told me very little about the jerk. He did not join in my ranting and name-calling, but neither did he support _Mellarco's _actions. He just lounged on his leather divan, a glass of wine in his right hand, watching me pace a hole in his fur rug. When I suddenly declared that I refused to attend the stupid, pointless classes, he replied with something that made me pause.

Cinna shifted on the divan so that he was staring at the ceiling. His gold-lined eyes fluttered shut. _'And give him the satisfaction of knowing that his actions hurt and humiliated you?' _He said offhandedly.

'_I'm not hurt. I am pissed off.' _

'_Many say that anger is simply an aggressive form of sadness.' _

'_What are you trying to insinuate, Cinna?' _I man sighed before gracefully pulling himself up to his feet, brushing invisible lint off of his shirt.

'_I'm not trying to insinuate anything, Cara. I'm just suggesting that you let that simmering flame within you ignite.' _He stepped closer towards me; a small, affectionate smile stretching across his lips. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and I felt my cheeks warm slightly. '_Break the habit, Katniss. You needn't run away.' _

And he had left me alone within the large expanse of the lounge room; stunned, confused, slightly humiliated and yet…determined.

_Angry, _but determined. Something that I hadn't felt for a while.

"Katniss?" I felt someone shake my shoulder gently, pulling me out of my trance. I blinked, remembering where I was. Several pairs of eyes gaze at me expectantly. Bridgette clears her throat impatiently from the front.

Her eyes narrow. "I repeat: Katniss Everdeen; Glimmer Savelli."

I feel the lines etched into my forehead deepen. "Oh, right," I mutter.

I am one hundred and ten percent sure that my current headache will morph into a full-blown migraine by the time this day meets its end. As I rise from my seat at the cue, so does a beautiful blonde from the front. From my position behind her, I immediately notice her wavy, long hair that falls like a waterfall down her back. How on _earth _does she get her hair to shine like that? It's like I'm staring at a super reflective surface or something.

She has a slim yet curvy figure – the type that you see on Hollywood red carpets. Not at all like my scrawny body. Her lilac dress falls to her knees and from I can tell, is expensive. Then again, I wouldn't really trust my judgement in regards to the topic of clothing. Personally; if it fits, doesn't show too much skin and keeps me either warm or cool – I'll wear it. Glimmer begins to make her way towards the _training centre_ entrance, but not before casting a curious glance behind her.

A curious glance that turns _very_ cold, _very _quickly as soon as our gazes meet.

_Oh, for the love of…_

__**~.~.~.~**

* * *

**~.~.~.~**

The room I enter blinds me with its abundance of opulent white. Everything I see is either made of glass, stainless steel or…_white. _Impossibly, the ceiling seems to be made of a very large, single piece of glass – so clear that it looks as if there wasn't a roof at all. The dome-like ceiling accentuates the circular shape of the training centre. In the middle of the room stands a slightly elevated level in the shape of the circle – a podium, of sorts. I'm guessing that is the head chef's station. Eight television screens circle the top of the podium near the ceiling. Smaller white benches create a perimeter around the elevated level, approximately four or five metres away from the head chef station. Each station is made up of an elongated piece of white marble with a sink placed in the centre. An oven is placed on the far right hand side, a dishwasher found on the far left hand side. A row of industrial –looking fridges line the far left wall. Near them is a white door with the words 'Storeroom' printed across a stainless steel panel.

An impatient sound behind me makes me jump, and before I know it, my soon-to-be partner shoves me out of the way. Her heels clack on the tiles as she glances at me over her shoulder, a sneer pasted across her face.

"Oh, _do _stop gaping. It's unattractive." She shoots me a sugary smile, her emerald eyes glinting happily, before continuing to walk towards what I believe is our cooking station. The rest of the group has begun to trickle into the room. Amidst the courteous greetings, people smile or shake hands. Of course, out of all the possible partners, I get paired with the Type-A bitch. Hell, I would have even preferred to be paired with Clove. At least she doesn't pretend to like me.

I am tempted to shout out a slur of insults, but I bite my tongue.

I watch Glimmer thread her way amongst the benches, trying to find her place card. When she finally does, she grins. I cautiously make my way towards the bench, discovering the large, white number one printed across the front, facing the head chef's podium.

"Number one – my lucky number." Glimmer declares. She turns towards me, eyes narrowed and perfectly sculpted eyebrow quirked in disdain. "Look, _Katie, _it is simple." She pauses, voice dripping with annoyance. "We have three weeks. In those three weeks, you will stay out of my way and we will have no issues. _Hai capito?"_ Glimmer's soft, sweet tone heavily contrasts with the sneer that grows across her glossy, red lips.

The other participants have begun to flood into the training centre in pairs, their chatter reverberating across the large expanse of the room. I pay them no heed as the edge of my lip curls fractionally.

"Just out of curiosity; is _Glimmer _a self-appointed nickname? Kind of like a stage name perhaps?"

I allow myself to enjoy the splotchy red hue that begins to stain her whole face. _Hmm, not a very pretty blusher. _Her voice lowered as she moved towards me, her frame towering over mine. I stiffened, muscles tightening and instinctually preparing for either fight or flight. "You do _not _want to get on my bad side, you insolent girl."

I couldn't stop the short, sharp bark of laughter that bubbled out of my lips. "What is it with you Europeans and your lack of modern-day English sayings?" I roll my eyes. "My suggestion: buy a dictionary, Glimmer."

She opens her mouth, forming her retort, but is interrupted by a loud buzzing sound escaping the speaker sound system. "Pathetic girl," she snaps, shooting me a withering glance. Suddenly – as if peeling off a body mask – the girl before me transforms. A brilliant smile stretches across her lips and the light seems to hit her _just right _so that her emerald eyes freaking _sparkle. _She readjusts her stupid expensive dress, making me feel slightly – _grudgingly – _inferior next to her in my black jeans, blue flats and white t-shirt. I cross my arms uncomfortably. Glancing away from Glimmer, I attempt to discover what has made the room fall quiet – sans the sporadic whisper heard from the other side of the room.

I am greeted by familiar light blonde hair and broad, stocky shoulders – the shoulders of a baker. My palms grow sweaty, and I have a strong urge to simply _cut them off. _I can almost hear the blood pumping through my veins.

When he turns around, glacial blue gaze meeting my own, I feel as if there are waves crashing into my ear canals. As he registers me standing there, his eyes soften slightly – only to freeze up once more when I glance resolutely away from him. His jaw twitches and tightens. The tall, and admittedly _very _handsome man behind him glances towards me curiously, before glancing back towards Peeta. A frown shelters his sea-green eyes.

Peeta does not seem to notice the man's behaviour, however, because he simply pulls him towards the elevated podium in the middle of the room. There, he fiddles around with something on the bench – a microphone – making sure to attach it to his crisp white chef uniform lapel. He faces the large eastern window which proudly displays the Tuscan scenery that surrounds the building. I notice that he is not wearing the customary chef hat. Instead, his hair is simply slicked back as to keep out of his eyes. His back is facing our station. Maybe Glimmer is right – perhaps number one _is _lucky.

Above him, the plasma televisions display his face, allowing those he is not facing to gaze upon his boyish façade. Because that is what he is: a _boy. _A stupid, childish, selfish boy. Peeta clears his throat before grinning to his audience.

"Buongiorno e benvenuti a tutti." The enthusiastic round of applause that follows is sickening. I refuse to partake, instead opting to stare out of the large window. _How nice would it be if I could sneak out and sleep under a tree for the day? _

"I am Peeta Mellarco, and this is my _Sous-chef – _my second in command and very close friend – Mr Finnick Odair." The tall man raises his hand in greeting, sending a wicked smirk towards a pair of brunettes towards the northern side of the room. Their responding giggles grate on my already frazzled nerves.

"I understand that many of you have travelled far from home in order to attend these classes – please believe me when I say I am overwhelmed by your enthusiasm." He opens his mouth to continue but is interrupted by female cheers. Peeta then decides to slowly spin around, hands held up in the air in a bashful manner.

Finnick snorts, rolling his eyes, before sliding onto the counter. "I suggest you stop encouraging him, ladies – his ego is large enough already."

I can't stop the bubble of laughter that arises from my throat. It seems to catch the attention of the bronze-headed man. I stiffen when I realise he does a double take, his expression quizzical. Peeta ignores his friend's comment, choosing instead to trail his gaze across the crowd. He paces slowly on the podium, making sure to pay attention to each participant – acknowledging each and every one of them.

"You see, cooking is very important to me – it's in my blood." He smiles wistfully into the distance, fingers trailing across the smooth marble of the countertop. "I moved to Tuscany when I was quite young, and it was here that I learnt the true importance of food."

Oh, how lovely. Prim paid an astronomical amount of money so that I could listen to an inspirational speech about _food. _For Gods' sake, food was there to be consumed and it either tastes good or it doesn't.

"George Bernard Shaw once wrote that 'there is no love sincerer than the love of food.'" Peeta shrugged, smiling slightly. "After living so long in Italy, I can't help but agree. My nanny – who was like a grandmother to me – taught me how to bake when I was young. Food was in my blood – by then, my father owned his first four and a half star restaurant." He shook his head fondly. "I flourished under her wing."

"Food in Italy is not just something you consume – it is something that brings people together. It is the egg and sugar that binds a cake together."

Here, Finnick laughs outright. "Terrible example, _amico mio." _

Peeta's cheeks redden as he gently shoves the bronzed man, attempting to push him off of the bench.

"As I was saying," Peeta sighs, ignoring Finnick's sounds of protest, "if you want to get the most out of this journey, I suggest that you let go of your hectic lives for the duration of these three weeks." He stands higher, exuding a sense of confidence and unwavering certainty. Glancing around, I see many of the other faces peering up at Peeta in slight awe. In their eyes, he wasn't just some stupid, famous chef – he was like some freaking sort of God. Even the blonde beside me seems to be radiating a sense of reluctant awe. Hmm, strange. I didn't think the Prima-Donna had a heart.

The only person that doesn't seem to be enraptured by Peeta's presence is Finnick. He simply sits there, arms crossed staring at…_me. _

What on earth?

My eyes narrow as I raise an eyebrow at him. The man has the gall to press his lips together and glance away, unsuccessfully stifling a laugh.

At the boyish chuckle, Peeta whips around to glare at his friend but catches him glancing in my direction. Peeta's eyes narrow and his gaze turns piercing. By now, the majority of the room is staring in my general direction.

Breaking through that big-ass window seems like a fabulous idea right now.

"Is there a problem here, Miss…?" His voice trails off insinuating that he does not know my name.

Oh, two can play at that game.

Finnick begins to respond, but I cut him off. "None at all," I reply innocently, effectively ending the conversation.

Peeta's jaw twitches in his efforts of maintaining a neutral expression. "It is just that I heard laughter coming from your general vicinity," he says, "I love jokes – do you mind sharing it?"

_Arsehole. _

I raise an eyebrow at him. "This is oddly reminiscent of my tenth grade math class."

Hushed murmurs erupt from around the room. Peeta's expression tightens as Finnick attempts to stifle yet another laugh. His gaze flickers eagerly between his friend and I as if watching a tennis match on his fancy plasma television. Glimmer seems to be doing the same thing, her mind obviously racing. Suddenly, she clears her throat – a pretty, feminine sound which makes me want to roll my eyes.

"I do not mean to interrupt -"

"- Sure you do -" I mutter under my breath, interrupting her momentarily. She shoots me a glare before continuing.

"- as I was saying, I do not mean to interrupt, Mr Mellarco, but I assure you that there was no joke." She finished.

What on earth is she up to?

Peeta crosses his arms, gracing Glimmer with a knowing look. "You do not need to lie for your friend, Glimmer. Although it is noble of you, you needn't do it."

My responding snort of laughter grants me with two angry glares – one glacial blue, another emerald green. Peeta suddenly steps down from the podium, strolling until he stood before our bench. I notice Finnick rise slowly from his position on the bench, cautiously making his way towards our bench. A mixture of curiosity, apprehension and confusion seem to cloud his features as he stares at the scene before him. The murmurs around us seem to steadily decrease in volume.

"I will ask one more time, _Katniss -"_

"Oh, so you know my name now?" I interrupt. Peeta ignores me. "- what is the joke that has you snorting like a horse, thus interrupting my class?"

Finnick places a soothing yet firm hand on his friend's shoulder, but Peeta shakes it off.

"_Enough, _Peeta. That's enough." He reaffirms softly.

I can see a subtle grin stretch across Glimmer's lips – something that both men ignore, and yet, seems to ignite a ball of resentment within me. I suddenly lean forward, surprising everyone but Peeta. Our noses are centimetres away from touching. I feel his breath fan across my face and his cinnamon and spice scent fills my nostrils. I hate the fact that I possess the strong urge to inhale his smell like some feral animal. My annoyance fuels my rage, making it decidedly easier to focus on how much I dislike the man before me.

"Ok, _Sebastian –_ oh wait, I forgot – your name is _Peeta, _not Sebastian!" His pupils widen at my exclamation, and he opens his mouth in order to form his retort – but I cut him off before he has the chance. Finnick stands behind him, frozen in confusion. Apparently his _friend _doesn't do this that often.

"That's the joke in itself! But do you want to hear the _real _joke? How about these classes in general? You ask people to pay an exorbitant fee in order to pay for cooking classes based on _lies," _I bark out a harsh laugh, "admit it, you don't believe in all that crap that sprouts out from your mouth – and hey, that's fine! Feel free to act like the bashful, kind-hearted guy you appear to be in the tabloids!"

Peeta gritted his teeth, leaning closer towards me angrily. "You know _nothing _about me!"

"And that's fine," I snapped, "I don't _want _to know about you! I don't even want to _talk _to you! But _you _are the one who is blaming me for something I didn't do," I point a finger at his chest angrily. "Don't give me that shit about how I was the one who started this – it was _your _friend who was staring at me and laughing for some stupid reason."

Finnick frowned. "Hey, don't bring _me _into this!" He cries.

"_You're _the reason why this," I gesture between Peeta and I, "happened!"

Peeta quickly spins around, facing his friend. "You were staring at her?" he questions accusingly.

The anger and annoyance I feel tingles within my fingertips. "Are you bipolar or something, Mellarco? Why the hell would _you _care?"

Finnick groans, but a smirk lightens his already handsome features. "I wasn't staring at her, Blondie."

Peeta ignores Finnick, instead choosing to spin once more, this time facing me.

"I _don't care, _Katniss. I don't care about you or your childish, petulant, immature personality – I only care about how you are interrupting my class. My clients have paid for cooking classes, not a soap opera."

I straighten my spine and raise my chin. "I believe it is _you _who is verbally attacking _me, _Mellarco."

Peeta stares at me for a moment, shaking his head slowly. "You just don't know when to stop, do you?"

My hands ball into fists at my side and I feel my face flush with anger. "It is the only thing we have in common then."

He pushes his shoulders back, jaw clenching. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, he softly utters his next declaration: "I think it's best if you leave the training centre, Signorina Everdeen. Your money will be fully refunded and our company will pay for your earlier flight back home."

I am shocked.

Shocked, angry, somewhat satisfied at winning this round…but also a little…_hurt. _

Who does this man think he is?

"You're pathetic, Peeta Mellarco." I whisper. He nods absentmindedly, already turning to face the front.

"Your bags will be waiting for you when you arrive at your villa. Do not worry about tipping the staff, it will be done for you."

_Tipping the staff? _But there is no one there but Cinna…

Ignoring my flurry of thoughts, I step closer to Peeta, grabbing his white chef coat and pulling him around to face me. Gasps issue from around the room. Although they could not hear what we had said to one another during our previous argument, they could tell that there was some conflict between us at the current moment.

"If you're going to kick me out, at least make it official." I tell him in a lowered voice so that only he can hear me.

His eyebrows knit into a frown. "Pardon me?"

I gesture to the rest of the room. "Tell them why you're kicking me out." I may be shorter than him, but I can tell that in this moment _I _am the one who he should be afraid of. I've had enough of being walked over or pushed to the side – disregarded and overlooked.

"You're the big, famous chef – go on, _tell them." _I goad.

The angry glint in his eyes dims fractionally, but the stubborn line that graces his lips does not falter. He jerks around to face the rest of the class. He clears his throat and marches towards his elevated podium. His voice once again reverberates around the large space.

"I regret to inform you, ladies and gentlemen, that Miss Katniss Everdeen has…" He trails off. "Well, Miss Everdeen is at the heart of a very problematic issue. You see, she has…"

Peeta licks his lips, ensuing an elongated pause. He quickly glances back towards me, eyes guarded. "Miss Katniss Everdeen is very…_passionate…_about food. I had planned to begin our classes with basic skills needed for the next three weeks, but Miss Everdeen insisted that I begin with something perhaps a little closer to my heart…" He trails off, clasping his hands together somewhat warily.

I am shocked. My heart stutters slightly, but I choose to ignore that. Instead, I gaze wearily at the blonde boy-man before me.

"I am…_unable…_to deny this request as it perfectly aligns with my underlying hopes of these classes. I want you all to immerse yourselves in the joy of food – the _excitement _of it all. I want you to see each mistake as a new lesson to apply to life in general."

He bites his lips, casting another guarded look in my direction. "Ladies and gentlemen, please have faith in my decision. In the far-left first drawer, you will find a collection of recipes. Please pull out the one titled '_Basil Gelato.'" _

I ignore the niggling feeling fluttering in my stomach, clenching my jaw. I refuse to be the first one to break our gaze.

"Basil Gelato may seem like an easy dish. What is so hard about mixing ingredients together and placing them in a freezer?" Peeta's light joke broke the tension within the room, gaining a few quiet chuckles around the room.

"Do not be fooled, ladies and gentlemen. This dessert can only be successful if you pay close attention to the detail." Peeta is the first to break our gaze as he turns his back to me. He stares into the Tuscan scenery out of the large glass wall, eyes unfocussed.

"Sometimes, we tend to overlook those minute yet essential details…" Peeta shakes his head, sending a smirk towards a slightly confused Finnick.

"Ladies and gentlemen: your time starts _now! _You have an hour to learn the workings of your station as well as complete the preparation of your basil gelato. Good luck!"

I watch as Peeta rips off his microphone, whispering something to Finnick and then making an escape through the double glass entrance doors. My eyes widen as I stare at his retreating back – even when the doors close, I find myself staring.

"Well, this has been an eventful morning…" A deep voice sounds from behind me.

**~.~.~.~**

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**I want to thank each and everyone of my lovely readers and I hope you all enjoy this chapter. **

**Let me know what you think! **


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